


Pitiless Games

by Tjadis (aithne)



Series: Old Roads [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 130,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aithne/pseuds/Tjadis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amaranthine is destroyed, and Warden Amell travels to Vigil's Keep to take command. But one either must play the game of politics or be used as a pawn, and her demons are gathering...  Amell/Zevran/Cullen, post-Awakening, multiple viewpoints, Part 5 of Old Roads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wintersend

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and welcome to Part Five of Old Roads! For those of you just joining us, this is a pretty good place to hop on if you don't feel like reading two novels' worth of story. (The first four installments of Old Roads are available on my profile, if you'd like to catch up.) There will be action, politics, and quite possibly some smut. Fair warning: the rating is likely to go up to M sometime within the first four chapters.
> 
> For those just tuning in, Old Roads is a slightly AU series about what happens to heroes after all the cheering is done. It's also about why demons act the way they do, having to live with the consequences of your actions, and the very messy business of living in a world where few can decide whether you're a savior or a devil...including some of those you were once very close to.
> 
> Kathil Amell vanished a few months after killing the Archdemon and reappeared years later, scarred and changed. Now, two years after her reappearance, she is traveling to Vigil's Keep to take over the Fereldan Wardens from the Orlesians--most of whom have died in the battle between the Architect and the Mother. She brings with her a loyal warhound, an elven assassin, a blood mage, a former Templar...and her infant daughter.
> 
> Warden Amell is about to be at the center of a firestorm. For even as she secures her place at Vigil's Keep, there are forces at work in the world that mean her--and Ferelden--no good whatsoever. And like it or not, every last one of Kathil's demons are about to come home to roost.
> 
> True tests never end.

**  
**

_My daughter was a thousand-petaled rose,  
a wheel with spoked hands!  A rain  
of music, shimmering gold in the eternal  
light and darkness of our world.  
She cleaved to my body, oh! in those days  
before sorrow, before grief._

 _In those days before grief, my daughter was my delight,  
as all daughters are to grateful mothers.  
Spirit of my spirit, substance of my form,  
mortal-named Elpis, Hope, the Last and Most Formidable!  
Oh my mountain-born daughter,  
your hands bringing the sky into being!  
Oh my thousand-petaled daughter,  
a thousand thousand songs nestled within your stamens!_

 _\--from the Canticle of Demons, stanza 2: of the Voice_

 _  
_

*****

 _Cloudreach, 9:35 Dragon_

  


 _Wynne:_

If any district in the Fade could be said to have weather, Forever-winter was it.  The crumbling district was filled with surging cold, its presence nearly physical.  Chilled mist wreathed around soulspires and the broken images dreamers left behind.  Above Wynne's head, half of a rowboat floated, serenely upended.

She had been through Forever-winter a few times before, but it had never been so empty.  The citizen of the Fade who had anchored this space and tied it to the mortal world was gone, and with it all of her attendants.  The still lake that was at the center of the district was fading into colorlessness, crumbling from the inside out.  

Still.  That could be remedied.

Some obscure impulse had brought Wynne here.  Perhaps it was the scent that the spirit who called himself Justice had left behind, a trail that was clearly imprinted on the fading stones of Forever-winter.  Perhaps it was some remnant of knowledge from her former life, that what was on this side the district of Forever-winter was in the mortal world called the Blackmarsh.  Even though the wounds in the Veil had been sealed--the imprint of Justice was strong on those scars--this was still an old road.  It could be held, with a will strong enough.  As she began to accept who and what she was once again, she knew that she had that will.

The old road was half-awake, but the presence of the citizen who'd held it had not tolerated many of the old things that usually lived in these places.  Some were still present, but bound.  

There was, for lack of a better term, a vacancy.

She touched a stone whose edges were fading into nothingness, and beneath her hand its edges sharpened, its texture became rough.  Forever-winter's chill seeped into her.  She could warm this district.  She'd never liked winter, and if she took this place for her own it would shape herself to her desires.  Wynne, when she had been mortal, had hated being cold.  It was the something she found difficult about living at the Tower, how her hands would chill and stiffen in the winter.

She paused, considering.  This had been a good place, once.  Or at least, not a bad one.  She trusted herself with the temptations of the mortal world.  It was odd, though.  Usually, when a place like this became abandoned, the lesser citizens of the Fade started creeping in the moment they were sure that it was vacant.  A stable place like this was rarely unguarded.

She took a breath--long mortal habit--and the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

 _Perhaps it is not empty after all._

 __The presence was a wisp of mist, writhing and wreathing, expanding into a familiar form.   "You are far from home, little Faith," Moros murmured as she solidified.  She wore her favorite form, Andraste as she was just before she was betrayed, her face lined and her clothes shabby.  "As much as one like you might have a home.  Though I suppose the release of the Harrowed destroyed your ground as well as mine."

"It was not mine," Wynne replied, primly.  "You established your ground in Noctis Aeterna, Moros.  What are you doing here?"

"I merely take my pets for a walk.  They do get so restless, confined."  She lifted her hand, hiding her smile behind it, and something with too many wings and _far_ too many heads passed overhead silently as an owl.  "You have been following me, little Faith."

"My name is Wynne."  She favored Moros with a penetrating look.  Though humans named her Despair, perhaps a better translation of her nature would be Suffering, or Inevitability.  Wynne had never gotten along with her in any of her incarnations.  "I am one of many, you know."

"And yet the only one with such an _interest_ in mortals."  Moros shifted where she stood, and her visage rippled.  Now she was a child, wide-eyed and with freckles spilling over her cheeks.  

Moros was guessing.  She could not penetrate the minds of other citizens as she could mortals.  But Wynne had spent time as a mortal, and Moros had gotten a little bit too close for comfort to one of the apprentices who had died under her mentorship.  She kept her expression neutral; it did not do to let Moros know when she'd pricked you.  "I merely thought that since this ground was so recently vacated, I might investigate taking it for myself."

"Such a pity, that.  She was promising, and she had some skills without equal."  Moros sounded almost regretful.  "If you believe you can hold her ground, by all means, take it."

"Are you going to challenge me for it?" Wynne asked, keeping her voice even.

"I have my ground.  And we are friends, are we not?"

 _No, we are not._

But there were a few things one didn't say to Moros.  Wynne weighed her options.  Leave, and lose the only unoccupied old road that she'd found in the last while as well as any possibility of influencing the mortals who would come here to live, once the memory of what Blackmarsh had become faded.  Stay, and have Moros as a visitor.  

The Circle Tower was closed to her now, and she missed touching the mortal world.

Moros shifted and changed again, and Wynne did start as she saw that she wore Kathil's face, her scars rendered in exacting detail.  Moros' voice, emerging from the Warden-mage's twisted mouth, was a jarring contrast.  "You enjoyed the company of this mortal, didn't you?  I can smell your influence on her, you know.  She travels to Vigil's Keep, and she brings with her your granddaughter."  That smile, and the light in her eyes, wouldn't be out of place on the true Kathil's face, but Wynne shuddered to see it anyway.  "As much granddaughter as you'll have, in the ways mortals reckon these things.  Stay, little Faith.  I do so love a challenge."

Wynne's whole body rang with alarm.   _Granddaughter?  Challenge?_  "Perhaps," she said, her voice guarded.

Beside them, the vaguely draconic form of the leader of the Unwilling appeared.  It settled back on its haunches, regarding Wynne with an unblinking green gaze.  "Ah, my pet, have you finished your hunt?" Moros asked.  The Unwilling dipped its head.  "Good, good."  She transferred her attention back to Wynne, letting the guise of Kathil slip and re-assuming Andraste's form.  "She is mine," Moros said quietly.  "And I will assist her as she needs, for I need her hands in the mortal world."

"Your _help_ never ends well for mortals."  Wynne swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.  Had she been gone so long?  After Moros had taken the Tower--time in the far reaches of the Fade flowed so strangely.  

"Does it not?"  She shrugged, carelessly.  "No matter.  Come, pet.  We will go home."  And she and the Unwilling were gone, and the old road was empty of everything but the lingering prickle of their presence.

Wynne breathed in, and began to make the old road hers.

*****

 _Kathil:_

The box was made out of a deep red wood, the whorls of the grain polished smooth under her hands.  Kathil traced the edges of the carving that Jowan had put into the lid, a stylized Grey Warden griffin surrounded by decorative knotting.  He had gotten the box from the master craftsman of the Dalish tribe they had stayed with for a few days, and they had scavenged the lock from a box they'd found in Little Oakford.  Every night, Jowan would sit by the fire and carve while they talked and took care of the newest member of their little company.

Said infant was sleeping cradled in Cullen's breastplate, near the fire that drove the spring chill from the room.  It had been a long walk north, but they were near Soldier's Peak at last, and from there they would go to Vigil's Keep.  The merchant who had offered to shelter them for the night was out with his sons, walking the fenceline.  There would be no better time to do this.

Cullen and Zevran had pulled up chairs close to her, and she looked up from the box that rested on her lap at them.  "Are you two ready?" she asked.  Cullen was solemn; Zevran had just the faintest smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.  Both of them nodded.  "You first," she told Cullen.

He raked his hair out of his eyes and then pulled from the pack next to him a sheathed dagger.  It was small, the hilt not quite long enough for him to comfortably grip with his large hands, and it bore the blade and flame symbol of the chantry on the hilt and tooled into the leather of the sheath.  "This was the first steel that I was given after I went into Templar training," he said.  "Funny.  It seemed a lot bigger, back then.  Then again, pretty much everything did."  Kathil lifted the lid of the box, and he laid the dagger in the bottom with something akin to reverence.

Zevran stirred, and from somewhere on his person he produced a pair of gloves.  They were well-worn, Dalish embroidery still visible through the old blood stains.  He said nothing, only glanced at Kathil and laid them in the box, on top of the dagger.  "You still carried those around with you?" Kathil asked, surprised.

Zevran gave her a half-smile.  "I have never claimed not to be sentimental, no?"

She sniffed at him, but something within her twisted.  "Now, my turn," she said.  She leaned over and picked up a pouch from beside her chair.  From the depths of it, she produced two things: one a thin coin with a frilled flower stamped into it, and the other a chain from which hung a steel amulet.  "This is for Leliana," she said, holding up the coin, then laying it in the box.  "It might not be what she'd have chosen to put in, but it was the only thing I could think of.  And this..."  She held up the amulet, which spun idly on its chain.  On the smooth surface of the back, shadows moved.  "This was a gift, from the Gauntlet.  It's named Reflection."

"The spirit you saw," Zevran said.  "The one you would tell no one of."

"Indeed.  It took the form of Jowan, but it wasn't him.  It was someone--something--else."  She considered the amulet, taking a deep breath in, then laid it atop the rest.  Beside her was a pile of folded papers, wax-sealed.  She set those in the box, as well.  

Cullen asked, "What are those?"

"Letters."  She glanced down; on the top letter, she had written _For Cerys_ above the seal.  "Some for Cerys, some for others.  A long and very stern letter for Alistair."  Kathil closed the box.  The key was small and made of iron, and if made a metallic _click_ as the box closed.  She murmured a few soft words, feeling a little bit of power leak out of her fingertips and into the lock.  "There.  That's done."  She handed the key that she held to Zevran.  He closed his hand around it and gave her a questioning look.  "Keep it for now, and give it to her when she's old enough to understand," Kathil said.  "I'll send the box to Alistair for safekeeping.  It's her inheritance, after all."

Cullen's jaw went hard.  "Why give the key to Zevran?" he asked.  "Why not keep it?"

"You and I are both Grey Wardens."  Kathil glanced over at Cerys, still sleeping.  How to explain it, this sense of urgency, this knowledge that whatever happened, she had to do what she could to make sure that Cerys was taken care of?

 _How could I have known?_

"We have thirty years," Cullen said.  "That's long enough."

"Twenty-five, in my case," she corrected gently.  "We're difficult to kill, Cullen, but I'm as mortal as anyone else, and I put myself in danger on a daily basis--as do you. Zevran is likely to outlive the both of us."

"He puts himself in danger as well--"

"I believe what our fair Warden is trying to tell us is that she is going to start trying to spare me at least some of the fighting from now on," Zevran said.  He was threading the key onto the cord he wore around his neck, letting it clink against the amulet he had on.  "Though I do not know if she will succeed."  He gave Kathil a slow, dangerous smile.  

The fingers of her left hand curled closed.  "Zev, I..."  She kept her voice under control with an effort of will.  "Cullen, could you excuse us for a few moments?  See if Jowan needs some help with dinner."

Cullen looked between the two of them, and evidently decided that prudence was the better part of valor.  He was up and out, and though he gave a backward glance at the two of them, he didn't pause.  Kathil turned her attention to Zevran, who was arching an eyebrow at her.  "You had something you wished to say to me?" he asked.

Her fingers ran over the pitted and scratched metal of her Warden's Oath.  Five years since she'd been handed it after her Joining.  Five years a Warden, and for a long time it had been all she was.  "If it comes down to a choice between protecting Cerys and protecting me--"

"It will not."  His voice was flat, and all amusement had left his features.  "Do not ask."

Kathil swallowed, her throat tight.  "I have Cullen," she said, keeping her voice under control.  "When it comes down to it, he's always going to protect me.  But you and me...we protect Cerys.  No matter what."  

They had not talked about the multitude of _what if_ s before.  They had silently agreed to let this subject lie, before Cerys had been born, and after they had been too busy traveling to really talk about much of anything.  Kathil found herself asleep whenever she sat down for more than a few minutes.  Useful, since she was woken several times a night, but not conducive to important discussions.  

But now the question that they hadn't spoken before hung in the air between them.  "And if you fall?" Zevran asked, finally.  

 _Not if.  When._  Her mouth was dry.  "Get the box, distribute the letters, and get her out of Ferelden."  She drew a long, shaking breath.  "I won't have her...used as some sort of game piece in anyone's politics.  And if she's a mage, I don't want the Chantry getting its hands on her.  I'm going to be making some arrangements at Soldier's Peak to keep enough coin in reserve to keep the two of you for years, if need be."

He considered her, outwardly calm except for the hand that was fidgeting towards where she knew he kept a hidden blade.  "You've thought about this."

Kathil's breath snagged in her throat.  "And you haven't?  I have to be realistic, Zev.  I'm not going to get my four score and ten and die in my sleep."  Her voice broke, and she forced it steady once more.  "I don't like it, but I have to plan for what happens to Cerys when I'm gone.  If we're lucky, I'll get my full twenty-five years and it won't be a problem.  But I'd rather plan for the worst while still hoping for the best."

Because this was _her_ life, and it was safe to assume that the worst was going to happen.

Very rarely did she see Zevran's expression as open as it was now, emotions flickering across it, understanding dawning in his eyes.  Had he truly not thought about this?  Had he not known?  

For a moment, she thought he was going to say something.  After a moment, though, he moved to perch on the edge of her chair and pull her into a hard embrace, holding onto her.  "I will _not_ lose you," he said, his warm breath in her hair.  

And that was all he said.  But he didn't move, didn't let go, and she closed her eyes and leaned into him.  "I'll do my best to survive, if you do the same."

"I will, _mi alma_ , I will."  He let go of her, and the moment seemed to have passed.  Kathil felt what was between them settle into a delicate kind of peace.  She glanced up at him, and saw that he was looking at Cerys, in the breastplate that had doubled as a cradle while they were on the road.  

Kathil slid her hand into Zevran's, curled her fingers around his.  He was always so warm, as if somewhere inside of him was a feverish, unquenchable flame.  "There's a Revered Sister at Soldier's Peak.  Jacinthe, I think her name is."  She kept her voice soft.  "I met her, a few years ago.  It's a hard posting, but she was determined to make it work.  I got the impression that her home chantry wasn't very fond of her views.  If she's the only Sister at the fortress, she's officially the Revered Mother.  And she is well-disposed towards Wardens.  Maybe enough to overlook a few customs."  She blew a breath out.  "Leliana will never forgive me for getting married without her there."

Zevran chuckled.  "In Antiva, a highly-placed couple will often have three or four weddings, in different parts of the country.  The marriage is registered weeks before the wedding, of course.  But weddings are one of the few occasions that peace generally reigns, even in the middle of a feud between families.  The more, the better.  Perhaps we could do the same."

"It's an idea, and it might keep Leliana from strangling me outright when she finds out I've deprived her of hours of helping seamstresses poke me with pins.  I'd prefer that this be official before we walk into Vigil's Keep, angry bards or no.  I don't know what's waiting for us there, but I don't want anyone to have an excuse to part us."  She stopped, and drew in a breath.  "If you haven't changed your mind, that is."

"Mmm."  He shifted, bent his head down.  For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but he only rested his forehead against hers.  "No.  I have not changed my mind."

And in the silence then there was so much that they did not say, that they never said.  How many of those words were frozen deep within her, locked away somewhere inside of him?  

But they confessed what they were to each other in every heartbeat, every action.   _I have not changed my mind_ meant _I am yours until I die._

She kissed him, lips and tongue lingering, her hand slipping up his spine.  She imagined she could feel the ridges of scar through his shirt, souvenirs of the Tower.   _If I believe in nothing else in this life, I believe in this._

Then Cerys stirred, and Jowan was clearing his throat from the doorway, and it was time for supper.  The merchant and his sons were back, along with the Mabari who had gone with them, and the small house was filled to the rafters with voices.

*****

 _Leliana:_

Murena trotted along beside her as they approached the gates of Castle Redcliffe.  She silently took in everything around them without asking a single question.  The questions, Leliana knew, would wait until the safety of the night had arrived and the girl was curled in her blankets, huddled in on herself, expression avid.  Murena spoke a bit of Fereldan now, but heavily accented, and she lapsed into her Half-Deep cant if she got excited.

Leliana had meant to wait another few weeks to set foot in Ferelden, but the dreams had started again after only ten days in Cumberland.  There were still patches of snow in the ground, and where the roads weren't frozen they were ankle-deep in mud.  Spring in Ferelden was, if anything, even _worse_ than winter.  

They reached the outer bailey of the castle, and came to a stop on front of a bored-looking guard.  "Greetings," she said, and smiled.  

"Your business?"  He looked the two of them over, taking in their travel-stained clothing and muddy boots.  "You two look like you've traveled a piece."

"I am here to pay my respects to the Arl," she said.  "I am a friend of the Wardens."

She'd expected anything from a relieved welcome to suspicion.  What she hadn't expected was a blink of incomprehension.  "The Wardens?"

"Wardens Kathil and Cullen," she said, frowning.  "They were here for the winter, yes?"

But the guard was shaking his head.  "We have had a Warden pass through, but that was about midwinter, and I think the fellow's name was...Pete, Piers, something like that?  Orlesian blighter.  No others.  Haven't had much for darkspawn activity, Ostagar seems to be doing its job now."

Uneasiness tightened Leliana's stomach.  "Well.  I am sure the Arl will wish to see me, anyway.  I met him a few years ago, during the Blight."

The guard snorted.  "Didn't everyone?  Go on up, then."  He waved them off, and she and Murena walked into the bailey and then the courtyard.  

Murena's face was pinched with worry.  "N'Warden here, _massime_?"  

"I am sure Teagan will explain," she said in Tevinter.  The girl fell silent, and they climbed the stairs to the gates of the castle proper.  The guard on the door remembered Leliana, as did Gerard, Teagan's castellan.

Teagan was down in the village, but his wife Kaitlyn was at home.  "Sit, sit," Kaitlyn said after Gerard showed the two of them into her bower.  It was not nearly as elaborate as the Queen's bower in the palace in Denerim, but it was quite a bit cozier.  Kaitlyn herself was a pretty woman, a bit younger than Leliana, and heavily pregnant.  "It's been some time--since the Blight, yes?  And who is this?"  She cocked her head at Murena.

"Indeed it has," Leliana said.  "This is Murena, my ward.  We were traveling to meet the Wardens Kathil and Cullen here, but it seems as though they never arrived--or perhaps they have been and gone?"

Kaitlyn was shaking her head.  "We only had the one Warden, and he only stayed a day or two.  Perhaps they went to Amaranthine?  We've had terrible news from there.  The whole town, burned!"  

"I know they were going south from Denerim, not north," she said.  Worry was beginning to curdle into fear and frustration.  "I did hear about Amaranthine, but..."

But her friends had been safely in Redcliffe, and had nothing to do with whatever had happened in Amaranthine.   _So I thought._

"It was that Orlesian Warden," Kaitlyn said, leaning forward a bit.  "There was a darkspawn attack of some kind, and he ordered the city locked up tight and burned.  At least, they _say_ there was a darkspawn attack.  Who knows what truly happened?"

Leliana took a breath, and then glanced over at Murena.  "Feet on the floor," she murmured, and gave the girl a significant look.  She'd curled up in the chair, tucking her feet under her and for certain getting dried mud all over.  Murena wrinkled her nose, but unfolded her legs.  Leliana returned her attention to Kaitlyn.  "And nobody has even heard from Kathil?"

The Arlessa's eyebrows went up.  Leliana remembered meeting her in the chantry, that terrible day they had arrived in Redcliffe to find it under attack not by darkspawn but by the dead that walked.  "No, we haven't heard a thing.  I remember her well--how is she?"

"Missing, it seems."  Leliana shook her head.  

The door banged open and Teagan strode into the room, a gangly young man trailing in his footsteps.  "I heard we had visitors--ah!"

Leliana stood, and smiled at the Arl of Redcliffe.  His hair and beard were going to steel, and care had worn deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, but other than that he was still as handsome as the day she'd met him.  "Teagan.  It is a pleasure to see you again."  

"And you."  He smiled at her with genuine warmth.  "I didn't believe it when Gerard told me you were here.  I thought you had left us for good."

"I was supposed to meet Warden Kathil here, come spring."  She brushed dried mud from her trousers and came to take Teagan's hand, squeezing it briefly and inclining her head.  "I had imagined that she and Zevran and the other Warden she is traveling with had been driving you mad all winter.  They were to go to the Tower, and then winter in Redcliffe.  I am most worried to find that she never came here."

"Hm.  I may have some information for you, come to think of it."  He let go of Leliana's hand, and glanced at the young man next to him, who was staring at Leliana with something somewhat akin to worship.  "Bevin.  Would you take our guests' packs to Gerard, and tell him to give them one of the good guest rooms?"

Leliana smiled.  "Bevin--ah, the Arlessa's brother!  The brave one, with the sword.  You seem to have grown a bit, yes?  Would you do me a very great favor, and show Murena here the castle?  I do not believe she has ever been anywhere quite so grand.  She does not speak much Fereldan, but she can make herself understood."

Murena, for her part, perked up at Leliana's words.  She was ten to Bevin's fourteen, but she had spent most of her life in the company of other children, and Leliana knew she missed them.  Bevin glanced at Murena as if he hadn't even noticed her before.  "I...sure."  He glanced at Teagan.  "Can I?"

"Go, the two of you.  Be at supper."  Teagan inclined his head toward the door, and in moments the two children had vanished with the packs, and the door was swinging closed.  "And the girl is?" he asked Leliana.

"My ward, and my apprentice," she said.  "She has joined me on my travels, to learn the trade of bards."  True enough, though the entire story behind it (the Bone Queen and the Daughter of Silence and the midwinter sun in Minrathous) was one that was not for these ears.  "So.  You have news?"

Teagan nodded, and went to kiss his wife.  Leliana took her seat once more, watching the two of them.  There was genuine love between the two of them, and it was good to see them happy.  Teagan pulled a chair over and settled down next to Kaitlyn.  "We had some news from the Tower, earlier this winter," he told Leliana.  "Seems there was some sort of trouble there.  Which isn't anything new, but the fact that they were sending Templars away from the Tower was.  Usually they're asking for men to replenish their numbers.  We had two come to spend the winter in Redcliffe; they're down with the rest, if you want to talk to them.  I'm not sure how much you'll be able to get out of them.  They...just don't talk much."

"I think I will need to.  Perhaps they know something."  She glanced around, and sighed.  "Though I must admit I am not eager to move at the moment.  There is a positive _sea_ of mud on the roads."

Kaitlyn laughed.  "I am friends with the Revered Mother--well, as much as anyone can be friends with Hannah who isn't a Sister.  I think, if I send her a message, she would send the Templars to join us at supper.  Perhaps you can pry more information out of them than I could."

Unfortunately, such did not prove to be the case.  The two Templars were a sallow-skinned fellow called Royce with a habit of starting at shadows, and a young man with dark hair who said his name was Mathias but would not open his mouth otherwise.  Murena, as she always did, fell on her food with a single-minded appetite.  According to Bevin, she had taken him on a headlong run around the castle, occasionally stopping dead to point at something and ask, "Wha' s'at?"

"I think," the young man had said glumly, "that I've named everything in the castle for her.  I had to go get one of the stewards to explain the difference between a well and a cistern, and why you build one and not the other.  And then she wanted me to name all the different kinds of stone used in the castle.  And then she wanted to know why we keep three kinds of chickens.  I think that's what she wanted to know, anyway, otherwise she was asking me what all of their names are, and I don't think most of them _have_ names."

"She has been in a city most of her life, a very long way from here," Leliana said gently.  "She's never seen anything like a castle.  You're showing her a part of the world that she'd never get to see otherwise, yes?  You are her guide."

The boy thought about that for a moment, and then puffed up slightly.  "Maybe we can go down to the village tomorrow," he said to Murena.  She had stopped eating for a moment, all of her attention focused on Bevin.  "There's a windmill, and if we're really lucky Teagan will let us take the ponies out."

"Only if you remember to groom and blanket them when you bring them back."  Teagan speared a piece of meat with his knife and smiled at his young brother-in-law.  "But, yes.  The ponies could use some exercise.  Mind they don't throw you, they're probably fractious.  Been a long winter."

Murena grinned at Bevin, who grinned back.  Leliana turned her attention to the Templar seated on her right, the one who was named Mathias.  They were in the small family dining room, away from the bustle of the great hall, and both of the men apparently were anticipating interrogation.  Mathias was pushing his food around his plate, his spoon scraping softly against metal.

Leliana considered him and his companion who, if anything, had an even longer face.   _Well.  Perhaps if I ask a direct question..._

"Tell me, what brings you to Redcliffe from the Tower?" she asked, smiling at Mathias.  "Greagoir does not usually let his own get too far away from him, yes?"

Both of the Templars stiffened.  She was paying a particular kind of attention to them in that moment, using the bardic talent of absorbing everything about a person, noting and cataloging it for later.  The way Royce's hand clenched slightly on his spoon.  The flinch of Mathias's shoulders as he glanced down at his plate.

The hungry look that briefly showed in his eyes, before it extinguished.

Mathias _wanted_ to talk, and was forbidden.  Royce would never speak.  "We don't question orders," Royce said.  "Greagoir wanted us to join the garrison here.  We didn't ask why."

Leliana would lay her life on that being the truth, at least part of it.  She also rather suspected that they hadn't questioned orders because they already knew why.  She gave Royce a brilliant smile and watched his attention slide away from her like water.  She changed the subject, and let it lie.

Later, though, she watched the garrison at practice.  Mathias was quick, and he sparred like he had something to prove.  Wounded pride, she thought.  He'd suffered a defeat recently, one that gnawed at him.  The garrison's salle was lit with lamplight, and among those fighting only Mathias seemed to have caught on to the idea that he could use the light and shadow to hide his true intent from his opponent.

When he finished his bout--slamming his opponent off his feet with his shield and putting his sword to the other man's throat--he came and dropped down on a bench at the edge of the salle, mopping his face with a cloth.  Leliana came to sit down beside him.  He started, but got his reactions under control reasonably quickly.  "Ma'am."

"Oh, don't call me that, I am not so very ancient."  She cocked her head at him.  "Ser Mathias, yes?  I had some questions for you."

He looked at her, visibly weighing his options.  "You're going to get answers out of me no matter what I do, aren't you?" he asked, a bit plaintively.

"Likely."  She smiled at him.  "Would it not be easier to simply talk?  You seem to be a man with a burdened soul, and I was a lay Sister for a number of years.  Perhaps we can help each other."

At the mention of her sisterhood, the Templar visibly brightened.  "Not here," he said.  "Come on."  He rose, racked his practice sword and shield, and led her out into the cold darkness of the early spring night.  The castle's chapel was deserted at this hour, the sisters away at their own supper.  He waved her to one of the pews, and sat on one across the aisle from her.  The edges of his armor scraped against the wood as he sat, leather straps creaking.  

"You're persistent," the Templar said.  "I'll give you that.  What did you want to know?"

"What happened in the Tower?" Leliana asked.  "I have a friend who was supposed to arrive there in the autumn and then travel here, and she is nowhere to be found."

Mathias blinked in surprise, and then his expression settled into resigned suspicion.  "Your friend.  She's not a Grey Warden, is she?"

"The Warden Kathil, yes.  Which tells me that she _did_ arrive.  What happened?"

He let out a heavy sigh, and rested his forehead briefly in one mailed hand.  "Well, Ser Cullen--sorry, I suppose it's Warden Cullen now--and the elf arrived first.  Cullen was lyrium-sick, and mad into the bargain.  And something arrived with him.  Evil is the only word that describes it.  Ser Greagoir said that it was there before they arrived, but it was only when the Wardens got there that we could all start to feel it."  He shook his head, looking ill.  "The Veil in the Harrowing Chamber was torn, and...something was resident.  What, nobody knows.  All I know is that the Wardens and their friends fought it, and we Templars managed to close the tear.  Not before it managed to do damage, though.  There are...not many mages in the Tower, now."

Leliana forced a breath inward.  "And then?"

"Cullen got better.  Then they left.  Greagoir sent all of the Templars who were in the Harrowing Chamber out of the Tower.  We might get rotated back in--he was talking about starting to replace a third of the Templars every year--but for the moment I'm here.  In Redcliffe."   _And I hate it here,_ said that look of misery.  "Anyway, we had an escapee from the Tower the day after the Wardens left.  It was Anders, he's escaped a thousand times before, but everyone knew it had something to do with _her_.  He was going to be executed, this time.  Finally."

"Do you know where the Warden went?" she asked, her heart clenching.

Mathias snorted.  "No idea.  Follow the trouble, I suppose.  Every time the Warden comes to the Tower she brings trouble with her, I hear."

"It seems to be what Wardens are for, yes?"  She surveyed Mathias.  "You truly have no idea where they might have gone."

"No, and I don't care, really.  Out of my sight.  The rumors about her and Cullen--I can't believe that Carroll was _sympathetic_.  If they weren't Wardens we'd probably have executed them both, that's just..."  He looked nearly ill.  

"What rumors?"  There was something here.  Mathias was holding his jaw tensely, and his hands were curled.  

"That they were...involved."  He spat the last word out with some effort.

"But was there any evidence for it?"  Had Kathil been so _very_ foolish?

But Mathias was shaking his head.  "Nothing.  Everything.  She was just _there_ , with the elf.  Waiting.  And she--"  He shut his mouth.  "No.  That's not relevant."

"Isn't it?"  She propped her chin on the heel of her hand, her elbow on her thigh.  "It might not be relevant to where my friend is, but it may be relevant to whatever you carry within you.  I know the Warden, Mathias.  She is a difficult woman in many ways, yes?  Strange.  Challenging.  Perhaps even unnatural, however you define the term."

For a few moments, Mathias did not answer.  He was staring at the stone between his feet, nearly lost in the shadows between the pews.  "We sparred," he said to the floor, slowly.  "Probably my own fault that she picked me out, because I said...something...when she first arrived."  He shook his head.  "She won the match, without magic.  A _mage_."  There was bitterness in his tone, and beneath that disgust.  "I wasn't surprised to be sent away, if a mage armed with only a _sword_ could manage to beat me.  I mean, for a while I thought that she had to have cheated, but...nobody saw _how_.  No magic.  Nobody felt the Veil tear, even a little bit."

Ah, and here they approached the central tangle.  A Templar questioning his worth, resenting the mage who had made him question it, seeking to blame her and finding no way.  "And so you turn your anger inward," she said.  "Did she spar with anyone else?"

"Greagoir."  Leliana's eyebrows went up; Kathil, after all these years, was still afraid of the Knight-Commander.  "He won.  Pasted the floor with her, really.  He is a true Templar.  Me...not really."

"Mmm."  She chewed briefly on her thumbnail.  "Tell me, Mathias, have you ever met a mage who was not very good at being a mage?"

The young man thought for a moment.  "A few.  Mostly, they get made Tranquil.  One of the apprentices can barely light a candle, much less do anything else.  Why?"

"I want you to consider that we are born with talents, not all of which we use.  I am very good at making candles, but I am neither castellane nor chandler, so I have had no opportunity to use that skill in years.  The same is true of you, yes?"

He considered the question, brow furrowed.  "I'm pretty good at driving oxen, but I don't get much of a chance to these days."

"The Maker blesses us with talents, but we are not defined by them.  Then, take mages.  From the moment they show the talent, they are mages--and that is all they ever are.  They are not bakers, or farmers, or hostlers.  They are expected to fight, when they do, with staves and with magic.  Think of it as if, when you were very young, someone looked at you and said you could only ever use a crossbow when you fought."

The Templar was looking suspicious now.  "And?  What does that have to do with anything?  Mages are mages."

She tried not to let her sigh escape her.  "Because Kathil, had she not been born with mage talent, would have gone into Cailan's army.  She has had the benefit of training with several of the finest fighters I have ever met, and more battle experience than you will hopefully ever see."

Mathias blinked.  "But...she doesn't even come up to my shoulder.  She's _little_.  And a mage." 

"She is the same height as many Dalish men, and they are known for their prowess in battle, yes?  And she is a Grey Warden.  They chose her for a reason."  She surveyed Mathias.  He seemed to be at least considering the idea.  "Do not think that because you lost a sparring match with her that you are not fit to be a Templar.  She has won matches against a qunari two feet taller and half again her weight."   _Though not often._  She made a moue with her mouth.  "You said that she lost to Greagoir; I think the good Knight-Commander has more fighting experience than she does.  Without her magic, she will lose to a determined opponent with the ability to anticipate her moves.  You are young, Mathias.  I will guess that what lost you the match was inexperience.  Something that you can remedy, with work."

"I still don't like it," he said, slowly.  "A mage who can use a sword is an apostate that the Templars will have a harder time taking down."

"Then learn how to use your own sword better.  Know that it is a possibility, and work to be ready for the day it happens."   _Giving encouraging talks to Templars.  Kathil would have your head._

"Why did Greagoir send me away, then?" Mathias asked.  His expression was open now, and lost.  "I've always wanted to be a Templar at the Tower, it's the most important posting we have.  And I _liked_ it there.  I hadn't been there long, but it was already home.  Though...it wasn't just me, was it?  He sent away everyone who was in the Harrowing Chamber while that...thing..."  He trailed off, then firmed his mouth.  "It has to be something to do with that."

"You would have to ask him, I think."  She leaned over and patted the Templar on his pauldron.  "Perhaps you should write a letter?  Let him know that you miss the Tower."  Mathias nodded shallowly, distracted.  He stared off into the middle distance, thinking.  Leliana rose.  "Thank you, Mathias.  You have been most helpful."

She left the Templar in the chapel, motionless in the dim.  She had a clearer idea now what had happened in the Tower, but still not much idea where her friend was now.  The darkened halls of Redcliffe castle pressed in on her.   _Where are you, dearest?_

She could almost hear Marjolaine chuckle.   _Does it matter?  You know where she will be._  Mathias's voice.   _Follow the trouble, I suppose._  

The Grey Wardens had burned Amaranthine.

Leliana stopped in the center of the hall, a shiver in her shoulders.  If Kathil had heard about Amaranthine...

She was going to Vigil's Keep.

The next morning, she told Teagan that they would be leaving for Vigil's Keep the next day.  "If you can spare a few days, I am planning to send some men to Amaranthine," Teagan said.  "I would go myself, but I have responsibilities here.  I am staying close to home until the babe is born." He gave Kaitlyn, sitting next to him, a fond look.

"I do not know how long I can delay," Leliana said.   "Ah, Murena, put that down!"

The girl set down the small vase she had picked up with a hollow thump, her eyes wide.  Leliana hadn't bothered to braid the girl's mop of hair this morning, and she looked like a little wild thing.  Bevin had not yet appeared to take her down to the village--he had chores in the morning--and she had been wandering around Teagan's study, poking at things with curious fingers.  She was also, Leliana knew from experience, listening to every single word the adults said.  

"You will travel faster if you wait, since my men will be mounted," Teagan said.  "And I would feel a sight better if I knew you had protection on the road.  It is obvious you can take care of yourself, my lady, but the roads become very dangerous this time of year.  The bandits come out in force."

And, it went without saying, the accommodations would be a bit more comfortable.  Leliana considered the idea of riding north, able to ask hospitality from the banns along the way, in contrast to slogging through the mud and sleeping in whatever inns or barns had room.  They would make up the time easily enough.  "In that case, it is a very generous offer, and I will be happy to accept."

Murena was at her elbow, tugging on Leliana's sleeve.  Her hair was in her eyes.  "Horses?" she asked in an eager voice.  "There will be horses?"  Though her accent was atrocious, her Fereldan was fully-formed and correct.

Leliana laughed.  "You will be very tired of horses by the time we reach Vigil's Keep.  But, yes, there will be some riding to do."  The girl squeaked with excitement.  It was good to see her eyes shining through her rumpled hair, her mouth stretched in a crooked-toothed grin.  Murena was altogether too grave, as if every breath she took were a test that it was very important she pass.  

And as if to add to Murena's joy, Bevin came bounding into the study.  After several admonitions from the adults to _be careful_ and _stay out of trouble_ , he escorted the girl out of the room, looking pleased as punch.  "He has a chivalrous streak a league wide, that one does," Leliana said.  "Will he be a knight, do you think?"

"He'll squire out in another year," Kaitlyn said.  "I'd like him to go to Denerim, but Teagan wants to send him to Rainesfere.  I say that Bevin is going to spend most of his life in Rainesfere, best to get him out into the world a bit before he takes over the bannorn."

They sat and talked for a time.  It was going to be a pleasant few days, Leliana decided.  Such were precious as gems, to be hoarded for later.  

Time enough to borrow trouble when she got to Vigil's Keep, after all.

*****

 _Zevran:_

His Warden strode into the kitchen of the fortress, led by Lorn and wearing--

"What _is_ that?" Jowan asked, looking a bit disturbed.

"Hm?  Oh.  I was trying on some of my old robes when Lorn came to get me.  Here."  She held out her arms, and Cullen deposited an inconsolable Cerys into her arms.  "Hungry, are you?"  She dropped down into a nearby chair and bared a breast.  At this point, they were used to the utter lack of modesty that Kathil displayed, especially when it came to feeding their daughter.

Those robes, though...

"I do not believe I have ever seen those before," Zevran said.  "They are _quite_ fetching."  They looked like they had been sewn together out of scrap leather.  A very _little_ bit of scrap leather, except for the boots, which ran up to mid-thigh.  With her hair unbound and rumpled, she looked as much like a Witch of the Wilds as Morrigan ever had.  Beside him, Cullen looked like he was having trouble taking the outfit in.

"There you go."  Cerys quieted as she latched onto a nipple.  "I must have lost track of time.  And yes, everyone spent a lot of time not knowing exactly where to look when I was wearing them.  I had to remind Alistair a number of times that my eyes were _not_ on my chest."  She grinned with savage humor.  "I was a little angry, and I wanted to give everyone an _excuse_ to stare at me like I was some sort of dangerous creature, I think.  Of course, I didn't exactly have the figure to carry it off back then, but I didn't care.  I switched to those Tevinter robes only a few days before I met you, Zevran."

"And _that_ is surely a pity," he said.  "You look even more like a barbarian than usual.  It suits you."

"And it seems to have been made for women with babies."  She glanced down at Cerys, and smiled.  Lorn lay down at her feet with a groan, and closed his eyes.  "At least, that's the only excuse I can think of for this neckline.   I don't think I'll wear it tomorrow, though.  I managed to find an actual dress without bloodstains on it, wonder of wonders.  I think I wore it for one of the coronation parties.  Best to give it some good memories to go with the rotten, I think."

Because the Revered Mother of Soldier's Peak was indeed kindly disposed towards Wardens and had unconventional opinions, and tomorrow they would speak words that would make official what had existed in fact for over a year.   _The actual ritual doesn't take long,_ Mother Jacinthe had told them.   _It's all the folderol around weddings that makes them take an age and a half._  So on the morrow, he and Kathil would marry, and the next day they would start for Vigil's Keep.  

They passed the evening thus, in quiet company.  The dogs snored on the rug; there had been little enough hunting on the way north, and once they arrived at the fortress that had eaten most of a sheep between them and then gone to sleep.  They'd woken only to go outside, beg for table scraps, have a drink of water, and fetch Kathil when Cerys woke them up.  The rest of them were much the same.  Though they'd had little trouble with darkspawn on the road, bandits were another matter entirely.  Both of their mages were worn thin, and the rest of them were not much better.

Once Cerys was settled and asleep once more, Kathil retreated to the bedroom that had once been Sophia Dryden's with the baby; Jowan took himself off to what had once been a barracks.  That left Zevran, Cullen, and the Mabari in the kitchen.  Cullen was reading some book he'd found in the scorched library of Soldier's Peak.  Zevran was working on his blades, using a whetstone to smooth the nicks out of the edges.  

After some time, Cullen cleared his throat.  "So."

Zevran stroked the stone along the edge of the blade, steel whispering.  He glanced over at the Templar.  "Yes?"

"About the, er, wedding..."  Cullen seemed to be dragging the words out of himself, syllable by suffering syllable.  "What does it mean for you and me?"

And there was a question that had no clear answer.

Cullen and Kathil had been playing a long game of approach and retreat over the winter.  Kathil, once burned by Cullen's madness, was twice shy; Cullen was unwilling to push her.  While it had been initially amusing to watch, it had gone on for altogether too long now.  And over the winter, what was between Zevran and Cullen had taken on a life of its own, a life entirely independent of whatever relationships they respectively had with their mage.  

On one hand, Zevran rather doubted that Kathil expected anything to change.  The wedding was an additional safeguard against those who would wish to part them, a formalization of who Zevran was to their daughter.   _It changes nothing,_ she'd said.   _Not much, anyway._

"I think," he said, and cursed his voice as it became briefly unsteady, "that the tying of one knot does not have to mean the untying of another."

Cullen was silent for a moment, shadowed eyes distant and considering.  "I had to ask," he said, and when he returned his gaze to Zevran, there was a smile lingering on his lips.  "All right."

Then there were no words, for a time.  Tomorrow night was to be Kathil's.  Tonight, Zevran and Cullen sought to reassure themselves; they were alive for the moment, if about to walk into a cave where metaphorical dragons roiled in restless sleep.

Later, when he slipped into bed beside Kathil without waking her, he bent his body around her curled form.  Even as thin as she was--nursing an infant plus a month of walking through mud had melted any extra padding she'd garnered during her pregnancy, and then some--they fit together nearly perfectly.  

It was a good thing that he had never spent much time anticipating where his life was to take him next.  It seemed that the Maker, should He exist, was bent on surprising him.

 _To the morrow, my Warden.  And to all the morrows after that._


	2. The Vigil

**  
**

* * *

_In the mortal world, a blind root may split a boulder  
and the tree may tumble into a ravine, victim  
of its own becoming, its own error.  
The mortal world becomes, and becomes.  
But it becomes decay, it becomes dust,  
it grinds down to a slow halt under the weight of its birth—_

 _Mortals, can you hear the wheels of your world halting?  
Mortals, do you understand that our fate is yours?_

 _From the Canticle of Demons, stanza 3: of the mortal world_

 __

 _  
_

* * *

_  
_

_Cullen:_

Next to him, Zevran fidgeted.

Cullen very carefully smothered his grin. "If I recall correctly, this was  _your_  idea."

"Do not remind me." The elf shot a glance at him. "I was not expecting it to be quite so—public." He was wearing a shirt he'd borrowed from one of the many Drydens living in the fortress, his own best trousers, and a slightly panicked expression in his eyes, if Cullen was reading him right. Still, nothing could change the fact that the elf was every inch as handsome a man as Cullen had ever seen, and he'd swear that one before the lectern if asked.

"Don't worry, I think nerves are traditional," he said, trying to be reassuring. "As is the bride being a bit late." He didn't bother to hide his smile, then, though he was conscious of being under the gaze of every living soul in the fortress. On the bench nearest Cullen and Zevran, Levi Dryden attempted to calm Cerys, who was beginning to fuss. "Besides, Kathil can't really be late. We can't start without her."

The Revered Mother Jacinthe cleared her throat at them from behind the lectern. Jowan stood a little to one side and down a step, roughly analogous to Cullen's own position. "You two,  _hush_. Honestly. Get men up here and suddenly they turn into little boys. Do try to remember this is supposed to be a solemn occasion."

Then Zevran cracked a smile. "Is it, then? I was under the impression—"

But whatever he was about to say was lost forever, because at that moment, Kathil appeared in the doorway of the chapel.

She wore a long, elaborate dress made after the fashion of Denerim's nobility five years ago, deep blue overdress over a light green underdress, silver lacing up the front and embroidery chasing the hem. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and she looked younger than Cullen had seen her in some time.

Kathil took a step forward, and squared her shoulders. She was flanked on either side by an honor guard of Mabari, Lorn on her right and Fiann on her left. She glanced down at Lorn, and said something too low for any of them to hear. In response, Lorn looked up, giving a reassuring wag of his tail.

Everyone sitting on the pews rose, every eye on the mage who made her way down the aisle between the rows. Cullen found himself holding his breath. Once she reached the steps, the Mabari settled down on the bottom step as Kathil took her place beside Zevran. She reached to take his hand, and their fingers intertwined.

And with that, all evidence of nervousness in either of them faded.

The Revered Mother was a woman of perhaps forty summers, with a face open and kind as the spring sun. "So. We're all here to witness a wedding, yes? But first, I think yon boyos may have a thing or two to say about it." She nodded to Jowan, who straightened his shoulders as if he were in the Tower chapel and one of the Sisters had told him to pay attention.

Jowan cleared his throat. "I still remember the day you showed up in the Tower," he said, pitching his voice to carry but truly speaking only to Kathil. She was looking at him, holding very still. "You were soaking wet and spitting like a cat—I think you'd gone over the side of the boat. You ran off and hid the moment that the Templars let go of you, and then we had to turn the place upside down looking for you. I found you wedged into the back of a wardrobe, wrapped in someone's old robes. It's been twenty years, but I remember it clear as day." He gave her half a smile. "Zevran makes you happy, I still know you well enough to see that, and I'm grateful to him for it. You don't need my blessing, but you have it." He turned a bit towards Zevran. "And treat her well, you rogue, or else you're going to have me to deal with."

Zevran chuckled. "Understood."

The Revered Mother looked at Cullen. He took a breath, feeling heat wash over him, and let it out deliberately. He'd debated what to say ever since Kathil had told him that she'd like him to stand up at the wedding, and only last night decided for sure. It had helped to talk through it with Zevran, in front of the fire in the commander's quarters.

"I'm not much for pretty speeches," he said. "The both of you are altogether maddening, I'll have you know, but you are good together. A blind man could see it." Both Zevran and Kathil were watching him closely, and he continued, almost forgetting about everyone else in the room. "Nobody goes through what the two of you have and comes out the other side whole. But I've seen you shoring up each other's weaknesses, and reinforcing each other's strengths. You love each other, and in some ways you two need each other. And we've made a beautiful little girl together. So yes, you have my blessing. And honestly, it's probably about  _time_ you made things official."

There was a peculiar little smile on Zevran's handsome face, bending his tattoos in an unfamiliar way. And when Cullen glanced at Kathil, he saw that her eyes were shining suspiciously bright. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He nodded, gave them both a smile that was meant to be encouraging, and stepped back.

Jacinthe grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "These two have secured the blessing of their family to wed, so it will be done." She fixed Zevran and Kathil with a stern look. "This is usually when I'd give a stern lecture, but I think you would just ignore me, so I'm going to skip it. The two of you have some promises to speak to each other, I believe."

Kathil nodded, and briefly bit her lip. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady at first but quickly grew stronger. "You and I have walked a lot of roads together, and we've got a long way to go still. I can't think of anyone I'd rather share those roads with. Zevran, I promise you this: I will keep faith with you, will be there to catch you when you fall, will share all things with you. All that I am, all that I have, in love and in comfort, in pain and in illness, all of these are yours for as long as there is breath in my body. This I swear, before these witnesses."

The two of them were looking into each other's eyes now, and once again Cullen found himself holding his breath.

Zevran cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was smooth, though his Antivan accent was more forceful than usual. "I made you an oath, once. It seems rather appropriate to make that oath once more, yes? I am yours, without reservation. All that I am, all that I have, in all things; in love and comfort, in illness and in pain, as long as my heart beats and there is breath in my body. You are my soul. This I swear, before these witnesses."

Except for the echoes and the tiny sounds made by the witnesses, all was silent.

Then the Revered Mother smiled. "Then let it be known that these two are married in the eyes of the Chantry, with the blessing of Andraste and witnessed by their family and friends. Nothing that the Maker has created shall be forgotten, or lost." She raised an eyebrow at Zevran and Kathil. "Now is when you kiss, you know."

And they were, and everyone in the room was on their feet and grinning, Levi Dryden holding Cerys up so she could see. When Kathil and Zevran finally broke the kiss and turned to face the witnesses, they were both wearing wide, delighted grins.

A moment after that, Jowan swept Kathil up in a hug. "Congratulations, little sister," Cullen heard him say. For his own part, he pulled Zevran into a hug, feeling the elf's body tense and then relax against his. Neither of them spoke.

They broke apart, and Kathil and Zevran joined hands once more and went to greet the witnesses, the Drydens and the assorted others who made up the paltry population of Soldier's Peak. There was laughter and congratulations, a bit of good-natured razzing, many slaps on the back and hugs for both of them accompanied by the excited barking of the Mabari. The Drydens had put together as much of a wedding feast as they could manage with Wintersend supplies, and the meal was altogether congenial.

Cullen ended up sitting next to Jowan as the Drydens pulled the newlyweds to their feet and hauled them into the dancing-circle that was forming. Drums and pipes—instruments that any farmholder might have on hand—had been brought out, and some of the more musically inclined of the merchant clan who had made themselves at home in the old fortress were setting up to play.

Zevran was laughing as he was passed from hand to hand, and even Kathil was smiling. Cullen nudged Jowan with his elbow. "Aren't you going to go dance?"

"In a bit," the mage replied. He was watching the goings-on with a contemplative look on his face. "We should have come up here to spend the winter, I think."

"We couldn't have known that Laurens would recall all the Wardens from here," Cullen said. "Maker's Breath, but there's a  _lot_  of Drydens, aren't there? I can't keep them all straight."

"Kathil can, but I surely can't either." One of the older children walked past, carrying Cerys and with a pair of little boys trailing behind her skirts. "Maybe I'll try to get reassigned back up here, once the situation in Amaranthine is stabilized."

Cullen gave him a sharp look. "You've been in the tower, haven't you?"

"Maybe. A little." Jowan glanced sidelong at Cullen. "Avernus was on to something, you know. I can't condone his methods, but I can understand them."

He snorted gently. "If you think Kathil is going to trust you out of her sight..."

"I know. Just a fancy, is all. A way to use this gift of mine to help the Wardens. Like as not I'll spend the rest of my life going where Kathil does. Still, it's not a bad life. At least I don't have to pretend not to be a mage."

"Hard, was it?"

"You have  _no_  idea. It's like you trying to pretend not to be a ginger." Jowan grinned sharply. "It always shows through. Then again, most things do." His gaze had sought and found Kathil as the music began, watched her and Zevran begin to dance, the two of them moving with practiced grace. "Like that. Do you remember when Sati died, Cullen?"

The question caught him off guard. "A bit. I didn't stand at her Harrowing, if that's what you're asking."

Jowan shook his head, still watching Kathil and Zevran. Fiann padded over, and settled down with a sigh at Cullen's feet. "It wasn't the first time we'd lost someone, but it was the first time it was someone so close to either of us. And she was just  _gone_. Sneaking off to meet Kathil in the chapel one night, and the next morning nobody would admit she ever existed at all. That was the day I decided I was getting out of the Tower, no matter what it took or what magic I had to learn."

"Do you have a point?" asked Cullen.

The mage shrugged. "In the end, it was a stupid tragedy, a waste of a mage who was bidding to be better than Kathil and I put together. But we're here today because a Templar put a sword through Sati's heart six years ago. We all owe her a debt, I think. Kathil has never stopped loving her."

"I know." The music shifted, and the dancers separated and came together. "I don't think she ever stops loving anyone. Not really."

"You might want to remember that, Cullen. Just between you and me." He smiled at Cullen and stood, then strode forward into the crowd of dancers. One of the women—Mikhael Dryden's wife Akiva, Cullen thought—grabbed Jowan's hand and pulled him into the dance.

He sat and watched and fed bits of biscuit to Fiann. The children who had been given charge of Cerys wandered past again; the infant was sound asleep, evidently completely content to be hauled around in a basket. She'd wake soon enough, and Cullen kept a weather eye out for her.

Distracted, he didn't see Kathil approach until she was right in front of him. "Are you going to sit there like a lump all night?" she asked, voice laced with humor. "Come on, Cullen. Dance with me."

 _I have to stay here_ , he was about to protest, but the look on her scarred face stopped the words from coming out of his mouth. Instead, he found himself saying, "All right, then."

She hauled him to his feet and led him towards the dancers. And as their feet picked up the enthusiastic beat pounded out on drums that had seen far better days, he gave in to the occasion and let himself remember how to dance, remember Leliana's voice guiding him through the steps of dances far more complicated than this one.

Tomorrow, they would leave for Vigil's Keep, and plunge into the mire of politics and responsibility. Tonight, they could be just a family celebrating a wedding. The cheer on every face, the evident pride in the set of Levi Dryden's shoulders when he looked at Kathil—it was comfort and blessing both.

And when the song ended and the drummers and pipers rose to take a break, he reached out for Kathil's hand. He pulled her into a hug, her deceptively fragile-feeling frame sharp against him. She hugged him back, laughing. "You are beautiful," he murmured to her. "You've done well."

"Not so much the first, but I'm told that today is the one day of my life that everyone is obligated to lie to me on that score. But I think I concur with the second, at least for the moment." He could hear warmth in her voice. "Go dance with Zev. I'm going to go feed Cerys, and then we'll retire and let you all get on with the  _real_ party."

Cullen bent his head forward, pressing his lips against her hair. Then he let Kathil go, saw the smile on her face, undimmed by the twist at the scarred corner. She turned and plunged into the crowd as the players started banging experimentally on the drums and discussed what they were to play next.

He did dance with Zevran, ignoring the knowing smiles on the faces of the older Drydens. After that set was done, Kathil and Zevran were swept up in the crowd and escorted to the door of their room, to the accompaniment of cheers and teasing. Kathil was carrying Cerys; she was still too young to spend a night away from her mother.

The bedroom door was closed behind the newlyweds, and the party adjourned to the kitchen of the fortress, where casks of brandy and ale waited to be tapped. Cullen meant to have a drink and then make an excuse and retire. But whenever he tried to leave, one or another of the assembled witnesses would press another drink into his hand. At first, it seemed a bit impolite to refuse. Then it seemed like a very good idea indeed to accept the drinks as they were given to him. He'd never actually been drunk before, he realized, a bit belatedly.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. He remembered seeing Jowan tossing a spark of lightning from hand to hand, showing off for the crowd of girls who'd gathered around him. And he remembered Mikhael roaring with laughter as he and a bunch of inebriated Drydens attempted to play hammer-in-the-hole with exceedingly limited success. Sometime in there, he staggered down an endless corridor with arms over the shoulders of two Drydens, all three of them singing. And sometime, Levi Dryden was slurring at him all about how Kathil had _believed_  him when he'd brought her this unlikely story about his Warden ancestress and how grateful he was.

He didn't quite properly remember much, after that.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a cold, hard surface, and there was something prodding his ribs. He cursed as the world spun around him, and closed his eyes again. The poking paused, then continued. "Go away," he attempted to growl. It came out a bit weakly.

"Just how much did you drink last night?" a familiar voice said.

 _Maker's Breath._  Jowan. Sounding  _cheerful_. "Go away and let me die in peace," he managed, realizing his head was pounding and his belly was roiling.

The poky thing—the toe of Jowan's boot—nudged him again. "Can't. Kathil sent me to find you. We're meant to be leaving as soon as we've had breakfast." Cullen heard the mage sigh. "Oh, fine, here."

There was a hand placed briefly on Cullen's forehead, and a tingling coolness swept through his body, taking the headache and all of the other aches that Cullen hadn't yet gotten around to cataloguing. When he opened his eyes once more, the room had stopped spinning. "What in Thedas—"

"Rejuvenation spell. Good for what ails you, whether it be battle fatigue or hangover." The mage was frowning down at him. "My version only puts it off, mind you, but it'll last long enough for you to take a bath. And find some pants."

"Pants?" Come to think of it, there was something of a draft across his legs... "Pants. Oh."

"I will have you know that I can't be held responsible for whatever it was you got up to, or the fact that evidently Templars can't hold their liquor. I'll let Kathil know that you'll be a bit."

Jowan was  _smirking_.

Cullen sat up, realizing that he was in the kitchen still, his pants were nowhere in evidence (though his smallclothes were on, thank Andraste for small favors), and he had evidently been doused in beer sometime earlier. Jowan took himself out of the kitchen and Cullen soon followed, heading towards the bathing facilities.

It had been worth it, he thought. Despite the fact that he could feel the hangover waiting to return, despite the fact that he wasn't sure what precisely he'd done last night or who he'd done it with. He wasn't likely to _repeat_  it, but...yes. Completely worth it.

 _Bring it on, Vigil's Keep. I'm ready._

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_Kathil:_

The outer ward of Vigil's Keep smelled like battle: smoke, blood, darkspawn, and death.

Once, the ruins within the ward might have been little houses for those who worked in the fortress, those of lower status. Now, the outer ward was a makeshift marketplace and refugee camp. Tents were laid out in neat semi-circles by the walls, merchants and farmers hawked their wares from wagons and blankets along the central path toward the inner gatehouse and the keep.

Kathil had seen more than enough hollow-eyed children and families for one lifetime, but still she glanced into the faces of all of those she passed. Looking for what, she never knew. She assumed she would know it when she saw it. She wore Cerys in the sling they had made for her, a warm weight effortlessly balanced. A month of carrying her along spring roads had given her more than enough practice to be able to do most things with an infant in a sling—including spellcasting, if need be.

The walls were covered in scaffolding, and dwarves were directing what appeared to be efforts to rebuild them. "Someone came after this place with siege equipment," Jowan said, surveying the still-unrepaired cracks in the walls. "Or lots of mages. Comforting."

"It's a lot different than when I was here last," Cullen said. "Feels different, too." Fiann glanced up at him, and _whuff_ ed quietly. Then she went back to sniffing the ground, her tail flailing.

They had heard so many different rumors on the way north. It seemed that the one about the darkspawn having been somehow  _organized_  had been the truth.

They had not been challenged at the outer gatehouse, since they were not obviously darkspawn. As they passed through the crowds and climbed the steps to the inner gatehouse, though, a man called a challenge to them. "Inner ward's off-limits unless you have business there, neighbors. Sorry."

"We have business," Kathil said. They drew even with the splintmail-armored guard. "Grey Wardens."

The guard looked them over with a gimlet eye. "Think I believe you, too. Only Wardens and nobles wear armor like that. And—Ser Cullen! Is that you?"

"Aye and indeed." Cullen grinned. "Been, what, a bit over a year? How's your wife, Haelfren?"

"Still throwing me out on my ear every fortnight or so," the guard said, a bit mournfully. "I deserve it, too. Go on up, all of you. I'm sure Ser Laurens will be happy to see you. The Wardens are short-handed just about now." He waved them through the gatehouse and into the upper ward of the Vigil.

"Main keep's this way," Cullen said. To Kathil's eyes, he seemed oddly at home here. It was the first time that he'd ever been somewhere that the rest of them hadn't at least visited first. It was not the first time she'd ever thought about the fact that even Jowan had traveled more than Cullen ever had, but seeing the extra measure of pride he took in being able to lead them unerringly across the inner ward and to the keep proper brought back those thoughts, and then some.

They were stopped at the gate by a lanky woman who looked at them all with no small measure of anxiety. "Er...Wardens? Yes? You're new."

"Private Nadine," Cullen said. "We've met, but it was a while back. I'm Warden Cullen."

"Oh! I remember you now. You grew your hair out." She squinted at Cullen, then the rest of them. "It's Lieutenant now. The rest of you are Wardens, too?"

Cullen smiled, and there was a chuckle lurking somewhere in his voice. "I present to you the Grey Warden Jowan, Zevran Aranai, and Warden Kathil Amell. Also known as the Hero of Ferelden."

"The Hero of..." The private blinked, swallowed. "Oh. I'll, ah, just go tell them you're here—" She whirled and sprinted up the steps.

"She's nearsighted, and she can hardly talk without stammering, but she has a backhand on her that you wouldn't believe," Cullen said. "Hall's up the steps here and through the big doors."

Kathil took a deep breath, trying to quell the nervous clench of her gut. She glanced down at Cerys, who was awake but quiet. "Jowan—"

He came forward and lifted the infant from her sling. Of the four of them, he was the only one who could truly fight one-handed if need be. They were uncertain of their welcome, and though Kathil didn't  _want_  to fight her own people, it might come down to that.

They transferred the sling and settled Cerys once more. "Here," Jowan said to the baby, adjusting the sling. "You'll want to see this, I think."

"You have a strange idea of what a baby wants to see," Kathil told him, but she had to smile. "Let's go."

The stairway was long, but Nadine had left the great doors slightly ajar behind her. Beyond the doors was a long hall, a fire burning in a circular hearth at the center. At the far end was a pair of steps that led up to a low dais, and at on it—

Laurens.

They paced the length of the hallway, passing pillars behind which shadows lingered. There were others filing into the room. She ignored them for the moment, focusing on Warden-General Laurens. Her first thought was, _he looks like hell._

The Warden-General had aged a decade in the year since she'd last seen him, back in Seahold just after his then-commander had skewered her. He'd cropped his hair short, and his gold moustache was streaked with white. More than that, though, it was the look on his face. She'd seen the same look on Alistair's face, after the Archdemon. She'd seen it on the rare occasions she looked in a mirror.

It was the look of someone who'd looked into the face of things mortals weren't meant to understand, and come back from the experience changed—and not for the better.

He did not look at all pleased to see them. They stopped about fifteen feet from him. "You finally arrive," Laurens said. "Though I am surprised to see you simply walk in, as if you have every right to be here."

"I am a Warden." She gave him a thin smile. "And this is a fortress of the Grey. So I am here."

"Warden Kathil." His voice was heavy with disdain. "I  _probably_  ought to bring you up on charges of desertion, you know."

 _Oh, no you do_ not. "We have danced this measure before, Laurens, and it didn't work then either. What have I supposedly done this time?"

"Amaranthine and the Vigil were attacked," he said. "By intelligent darkspawn.  _Speaking_  darkspawn. I am only one of my countrymen to have survived. I sent messengers, but all they told me was that you had disappeared. Again."

She looked at him, stunned mute for a moment.  _All_  of the Orlesian Wardens were dead. Young Jehan, generous Piers, even treacherous Anthoine. "I didn't know," she finally managed. "I had reason to be gone. I would not have done you much good, to be honest." She recovered her balance, took a breath, and pressed on. "So. You won. And in typical Warden fashion, that victory came at a price."

"I will not defend my decisions to you," he said. "Not to you, or to anyone. I have done what was necessary, and in my place, you likely would have done the same thing. So, mage. Why are you here?"

He knew. He had to know, standing there, seeing her in her armor and flanked by her companions. He just needed her to say it.  _Far be it from me to disappoint you._  "I am here to take command of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden," she said. "However necessary your  _decisions_  might have been, Laurens, they have lost us ground with the people here."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I have been recalled to Montsimmard. The leadership of the Grey is yours...if you think you can hold it. You have proven yourself unreliable. The Ferelden Wardens who stood against the Mother are likely to hold it against you."

Next to her, Zevran tensed. She was aware of movement behind Laurens, and shifted her attention to it.

There was a human male, tall and dark and vaguely familiar. A dwarf woman with a brand and the tattoos of the Legion of the Dead. An elven woman with a scowl on her face. A gaunt human with a gaze that burned into her soul. And—

 _Oh little sodding hells._

Oghren.

"Little late to the party, Warden," Oghren said, and there was old pain in his voice.

She bit her tongue, willing herself not to say the first ten things that came to mind, most of them things like _they made you a Warden, Oghren, are you_ sodding _joking with me?_

"I told you, I had reason," she said, at last. She gestured at Jowan, who stepped over to her. "Allow me to present my daughter, Cerys. Born just about a month ago. We've been on the road here ever since." She returned her gaze to Laurens, willing herself still and cold. "I would have not been much use in a fight, eight months along. And there were...other considerations."

Such as the Chantry, and their views on mages having children.

"So I see. I will let you speak with the Wardens. Let Seneschal Varel know when you've settled on who is going to lead." There was nothing of mercy in his softly accented voice. "I leave for Montsimmard in three days."

He stepped off of the dais and left, walking steadily out the door. She looked at the other Wardens. They looked back. Silence reigned.

Then the little dwarf woman raised an eyebrow. "So what makes you think you can walk in here and take over, just like that? What makes you any better than the rest of us, huh?"

Oghren grinned. "Bet we could take 'em. Watch out for the fancypants elf, he's a slippery one."

The human had been evaluating them, thoughtfully. "They're two mages to our one. I think. Is that a  _sword_ she's wearing?"

"Mmm. I'll take the big human," the Legionnaire said. "Velanna, you're on the Mabari. Nate, you get dark and scruffy with the baby, there, just try not to hurt the kid. Justice, you can go against the little mage."

The human with the burning gaze hadn't taken his attention off of Kathil. "She is not what she seems," he said in a voice that grated around the edges. "I have only seen her like a few times before. I am not sure—"

"Why do I have to take  _any_  of them?" the elven woman said. "You can tell they're not worth the fight. Why bother?"

Kathil exchanged uneasy glances with her companions. Then she shrugged. "I'll take the angry elf lady and the boy with the big bow," she said in a voice pitched to carry. "Lorn and Fiann, distract the Legionnaire. Cullen, you get the...tall fellow, there. Jowan, you're backup firepower. Zev,  _please_  take Oghren off my hands."

"Must I? He smells even more like a brewery than usual." Zevran sniffed the air. "And a privy into the bargain."

Oghren growled. "I do  _not."_

There was a moment when the two groups looked at each other, and the line between jest and altercation was very thin indeed.

But then Oghren laughed, and Kathil broke into a grin and strode forward, her hands away from her weapons. A moment later, Oghren was lifting her off of her feet in a rough, armor-plated hug. "It's good to see you, you bastard," she said.

"Thought you were dead," Oghren said as he set her back down. "Sure you're not? We have some pretty lively corpses around."

"Not since last I checked, at least. So. Introduce me? Looks like Laurens has been busy."

"You can say  _that_ again," he muttered into his beard. "The cute one with all the knives is Sigrun. The Dalish lady is Velanna." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Just between you and me, she's really cranky." The elven mage sniffed, but didn't reply. "Tall and kinda dead over there calls himself Justice. And the fellow with the bow over there is Nathaniel Howe."

 _Wait._ "Nathaniel  _Howe_? As in—"

"Rendon Howe's eldest son," the archer said. He fixed her with a distinctly unfriendly look. "And you are the Warden who killed my father."

 _Andraste's little apples._  No wonder he looked familiar. She had to admit that the formidable Howe nose looked better on him than it had on his father. "I'm sure you have some things to say, Nathaniel, but they should wait for later. The Mabari are Lorn and Fiann. This is Warden Cullen and Warden Jowan, and this is Zevran. My husband."

And didn't  _that_  sound strange.

Oghren was gaping. "You  _married_  him? Alistair said that you two were making the nug with two backs, but he didn't say anything about you actually—"

"Oghren."

"— _marrying_  the poor sod. Seriously, I'm not sure who I feel sorrier for—"

" _Oghren."_

"—you, or him for not seein'—"

" _OGHREN!"_

The dwarf blinked. "What?"

She took a breath, and quelled the urge to strangle Oghren with her bare hands. It was a dismaying familiar feeling. "Save the commentary on my personal life for later. Business now."

"Hunh." He eyed her, not impressed. "So. You wanna take over, eh?"

"I have a personal invitation from the First Warden to do so." Granted, it was four years old and she wasn't sure what she'd done with the actual letter, but still. "And I have the support of the Crown behind me. Can any of you say the same?"

She swept her gaze across the other Wardens. She knew Oghren; he was happiest when someone else was in charge. The strange man with the burning gaze didn't strike her as the leader type. The Dalish mage didn't seem like she'd ever be bothered to attempt to lead, though she might wander off on her own. That left the Legionnaire who'd spoken up before, and the Howe.

"Don't look at him," Sigrun said cheerfully. "I'm pretty sure he's not allowed to take command, since the Warden-Commander position comes with the title of Arl of Amaranthine, and supposedly everyone would be mad if he got that." She grinned. "And I'm a walking dead woman."

"Aren't we all," Cullen muttered. "Walking dead, not women," he hastily amended at a look from Jowan.

That didn't concern Kathil as much as the first part of Sigrun's statement. "What do you mean, the command comes with a title?"

Sigrun shrugged. "It just does. Some kind of experiment the First Warden's running. Don't ask  _me_."

Nathaniel gave Sigrun an unreadable look. "What she  _means_  is that because the Arldom has been given to the Grey, whoever runs the Wardens here also has to be Arl." He grimaced. "She's right that nobody apparently wants a Howe in charge, any more.  _That_  has been made more than clear over the last few months."

"But—that can't be right. We don't hold titles."

The archer smiled faintly. "Wardens give up any titles they hold when they take the Joining, but there's nothing forbidding them from being given new titles after they join up. Besides. The King was the one who suggested it."

Kathil tried not to gape at him. "I don't suppose anyone's pointed out exactly what a terrible idea that is."

"Laurens didn't think it was."

"Laurens is—"  _Orlesian_ , she was about to say, but then she looked at their faces and saw loyalty to the Warden-General there. These people did not care that he was a foreigner. What they  _cared_  about was that he had, to all evidence, been a competent leader.  _Even if that leadership won them no love from the people of Ferelden._  "—no longer going to be leading, no matter what," she finished, a bit lamely. "So. Who was going to become Warden-Commander in his place?"

The new Wardens looked at each other. "We were getting around to deciding," Sigrun said. "I mean, nobody actually really  _wants_  the job. We all saw what it did to Laurens. And the only one of us with command experience is Nathaniel. Though, really, the armed mobs are sort of fun." Her small face split in a wide smile.

Kathil took a long breath. "So. Let me get this straight. You're about to be commanderless. Nobody really wants to step up and take it up. And you're giving the person who  _does_  want to take it on a hard time about it?"

"You weren't here," Oghren said, scowling. "You have no idea what happened." There was something brutal in his voice, a harsh reminder of the man he'd been when they'd first met.

"No. I don't. Because I've been in the back end of nowhere all winter, staying out of reach of the Chantry, not to mention dealing with a demon infestation at the Tower." She spread her hands, sending off a silent prayer to whoever was listening that these people listen to her. "Yes, I have a habit of disappearing. But I will remind you that I stayed where I was needed during the Blight, despite the smart coin being on rabbiting off to Orlais and raising the Wardens there. And right now, we have to try to repair some of the damage that this fight has caused. People are scared. We fought the Blight and we won, but there are some who are wondering if the cure isn't worse than the disease."

She watched all of them think this over. Something about the man they called Justice was unsettling. She tried to ignore him, for the moment; except for Oghren, she knew none of these people, and even Oghren she didn't know as well as she ought.

It was the Dalish mage who spoke, finally. "I have heard these things you say. Let them talk, I say. They will come to find that we are necessary."

"Maybe," said Nathaniel. "And maybe not. The Order was banished from Ferelden for a good long time. It's not a stretch to think that it might be again. We might not like it much, but people  _do_  know the Hero of Ferelden." The measuring look he gave her told her that he was finding the reality of the legend lacking. "We have a few days to think it over."

Sigrun elbowed him. "You just want to get back to breakfast. Come on, there's probably enough for you lot too." She grabbed the archer's sleeve and began to haul him toward the doors at the back of the hall. The rest of them shrugged, and followed.

Kathil dropped one hand to Lorn's back as he padded along next to her. It hadn't gone quite as expected, but it  _had_  gone vastly better than it might have.

 _It's probably the best I can ask for, really._

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_Zevran:_

He could wish that Leliana were here.

Already, the battle lines were being drawn with the Wardens; not a physical battle, no, but a battle for the loyalties of those who had been in the Vigil for long months already, who already had a leader and did not consider themselves truly in need of a new one. Zevran might be able to tell how to send a blade into each of their hearts (the archer from up close, the cheerful dwarf from a distance, and best to drop something very large and heavy on whatever the thing wearing a man's skin was, just to be sure) but he had no idea how to win those hearts instead of stop them. That was a bardic art, after all, the battlefield the soul and the weapons words.

 _I knew this wasn't going to be easy,_  she'd told him when they were briefly alone together, earlier that afternoon.  _They have no reason to trust me, and even less to want me to lead them. But—_  and she had grimaced, digging her fingers into her temples—  _being Warden-Commander is the one position I can think of that will allow me to start making changes that need to be made._

And there were other things, that were not said; that after all this time, Kathil was not one to take orders easily or well, and that his Warden craved a place to belong to, that belonged to her. A home, as it were. The Circle Tower had been that for a time, but no longer. Denerim and the palace were prettily painted traps. Orzammar was altogether too  _much_  stone, despite the novelty of being the tallest people in the place.

And there was no use fighting the fact that his Warden was a child of Ferelden deep in her bones. She might leave, but she would always return.

She and Cullen and Jowan had gone into conference with the rest of the Wardens, and taken the dogs with them. Zevran was taking this opportunity to walk the keep with Cerys in his arms, getting the lay of the land. The babe seemed content to be held, looking around her with an unfocused gaze. This place was old, a shout of defiance sculpted in stone. He rather admired its audacity, really.

He shifted Cerys in his arms, and the infant arched and stretched, kicking out her legs in her wrapping of blanket. A good baby, he thought, though admittedly his experience was limited. Surely, though, she did not cry as much as it had been rumored that babies did. So far, she was good-natured, except when she was hungry. (And could he blame her? They had all known their share of hunger in the last month, and she was the only one who did not know why.) She was fragile and sturdy all at once, a strange miracle, a delicious contradiction.

(And he was a bit silly, he thought, but he had never expected to have a child, and he had never expected to fall in love so irrevocably with that child, and this was all very new to them all.)

"And these are arrow-loops," he said, nodding to the slitted windows they were passing. "Archers and crossbowmen will stand here and here, to fire down on invaders from a protected position." Cerys waved one fist and made a chuckling noise. "That is right, it is far more difficult to fire through the arrow-loop from the outside, though it is possible for a master archer. Nearly impossible for even the most skilled crossbowman, though."

They passed through a long hallway; weak spring sunlight filtered in through the windows on the protected side. "If I am not mistaken, this is the wing that the Grey Wardens have claimed for their administration—ah, yes, that shield proves it." He studied the shield hung on the wall briefly; it had the Warden griffin on it, and a neat hole punched through the center from a crossbow bolt. "Such a pleasant reminder of death, no?"

Through an open door just beyond the shield came a shuffling noise, as of papers being folded and stowed. Pausing by the doorframe, Zevran listened, breathing in. A considering noise, a cleared throat. The scent of a fine oil used on armor, sweaty padding airing out, and a spice used often in Orlais as cologne for both men and women.

It was child's play, really, especially given that he knew that there was only one Grey Warden in the keep who was not ensconced in a dining room with his fellows. He stepped past the doorframe to see Laurens behind a desk, sorting through what appeared to be letters. The Warden-General glanced up, then sighed. "I suppose you want something."

"I? Merely taking this little one for a constitutional." He gave Laurens a bladed smile. and stepped into the room. "I must admit to some curiosity, no? Your return to Montsimmard seems fortuitously timed."

"I suppose it might be considered that." Laurens leaned back in his chair. "Though questioning it seems like it might be a bit foolish. Were I to have an opinion on such things, that is."

"Ah, but sometimes one must be a bit foolish. So tell me. Do you truly have orders recalling you to Orlais?"

The Warden-General's gaze was unwavering. "In a manner of speaking. After all, I do give the orders around here." He nodded at the chair across from the table. "You might as well sit."

Zevran did so. Cerys grabbed his shirt in one damp fist and pulled it towards her mouth. "I, too, am in a land strange to me, surrounded by those not my countrymen," he said, freeing the cloth from the infant's damp maw automatically. This did not discourage her from trying again, of course. "I believe I understand."

Laurens glanced at Cerys. "I have a family, in Montsimmard," he said. "Had. My wife was not pleased when I wrote her and told her I had to stay, and refused to join me here.. I believe she likened Ferelden to a wet, muddy prison filled with barbarians. I have to say that the only thing she had wrong was the prison bit. I would like to see if I can reconcile with them And with the rest of those I came with dead, this country and this command have become somewhat...empty."

He arched an eyebrow. "Do you think Montclair would have thought the same thing?"

The other man scoffed. "No. Montclair was a Warden, and nothing but a Warden. He made this command his. I have merely been attempting to fill boots far too large for me, and the effort is tiring. Perhaps your mage will have better luck."

"And perhaps she will. She  _is_  a Fereldan, after all." He gave Laurens a half-smile. "You bear little ill-will towards me, it seems."

"Montclair was a good Commander, and a good Warden, but he had quirks." Laurens shook his head. "You have to understand, he was a man who kept his darkness close, and quiet. He loved his sister more than anything, and he was pious enough to be unable to blame the Templars for not stopping the mage who killed her. He was...unreasonable about magic in any form." He looked down at the letters scattered on his desk. "I fear that his attitude was infectious. Eventually, events forced me to see that we truly cannot turn down qualified help—the last few months have been interesting, in many more ways than one. But, no." He rested his gaze on Zevran. "Montclair chose his own death. He would probably regret that he did not manage to take Kathil with him, but I'm sure that he would have been happy to know how close he came."

"I am sure," Zevran said. They sat in silence for a moment. He found it difficult to bear much of a grudge against this man; he had been in a bad corner, and he had done the best he could. He was no Montclair, for good or for ill.

He rose from the chair; Cerys had fallen abruptly asleep, as she was wont to do, and she did not waken when he moved. "I will leave you to it, then," he said.

"Before you go—" Laurens straightened. He appeared to be considering the wisdom of his next words, but then his jaw firmed. "We've had some news from Tevinter. Evidently, things are...unsettled. Even more than usual. We received a letter attempting to recall one of the Orlesian Wardens to his birthplace in Minrathous. Of course, Anthoine was four months dead by the time it arrived. And you did not hear that from me." He took a long breath. "Tell Kathil to come see me when she has a moment. There are things she needs to know."

 _Tevinter is a quiet fox in the long grass,_ Leliana had said. He wondered if she had survived the winter, if she would be joining them, or if they would be forever ignorant of her fate.

"I understand," he said, and took himself and the infant out of the office. Perhaps the Wardens would be out of conference now, and he could convince one or more of them to spar. There was a certain familiar unease taking root in his soul once more. It was a reminder that sanctuaries all too easily became traps, if one were unprepared.

"Then we will simply have to prepare, will we not?" he said to his sleeping daughter, who had one fist curled in his shirt. Her brow was furrowed in her sleep.

He touched his free hand to her head, her wispy hair tickling his palm, and walked on through the chill stone of the Vigil.

* * *

 _Jowan:_

He wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to get nominated as the leader of this little expedition, but he strongly suspected that Sigrun had had quite a bit to do with it.

"Are you  _sure_  there's a farm out here?" he asked. They were passing down a narrow track that wound between low hills. Except for the old cart ruts in the road, there was no sign that people lived anywhere nearby.

"Well, I suppose it's  _possible_  that I marked it down on the wrong place on my map," Sigrun said. There was a mischievous look on her face, easy enough to see even through the tattoos. "The surface  _is_ sort of confusing, after all. All this open space."

But there was a hard glint under her humor. Jowan silently evaluated the number of knives that the dwarf wore, that she had evidently been the only survivor of a band of the fiercest fighters the dwarves had, and the fact that most of the other Wardens deferred to her. "I'm sure your map is right." Because, really, did he really want to get himself on Sigrun's bad side?

Behind them trailed Cullen and Fiann, Nathaniel, and Justice. The explanation for  _why_  a dead Warden with a Fade spirit inhabiting his body was allowed to continue to run around as if he were a living person hadn't really satisfied any of them, but their presence here was tolerated at best, so for the moment Kathil had told them to just work with him as they could. He rarely spoke, but continued to watch Kathil with that unsettling gaze.

And then she'd sent them off to see if they could find any trace of the mages and Templars who had departed for Amaranthine in the fall, and had never arrived.

It was a fool's errand. The errant Circle folk had probably run into trouble too big for them to handle, and their bodies were rotting in some forsaken forest, or in the bellies of the local darkspawn. Still. It was the first time that Kathil had trusted him out of her sight for any length of time since the summer.

Perhaps they were beginning to get somewhere, after all.

Though, she  _had_  sent Cullen with them. Quite possibly to keep an eye on him, though he would probably be useful if they managed to find those they were seeking.

They kept walking. Fiann loped off into the underbrush and came back with things, mostly sticks and old bones. They ignored her; this was something that the Mabari just did, as far as Jowan could tell.

At least they ignored her until the gangly not-quite-puppy came back with something altogether different.

"What—oh.  _Fiann._ " Jowan came to a stop and turned to see that Cullen was looking at something that Fiann had just dropped in front of him. "Well. Good pup."

The Mabari bounced, wagging frantically. I  _am!_

What she had brought back was an object instantly recognizable to anyone who had ever spent any time in the Tower. An acolyte's staff. Half of one, anyway.

Cullen bent to pick up the broken staff. "Hacked partway through, broken the rest," he said. "Probably saved the life of whoever was holding it. Temporarily, at least."

"Friend of yours?" Sigrun asked.

Cullen shook his head. "The Tranquil make these more or less identical. Impossible to say who it belonged to. Unless Jowan has any ideas."

"I think it means we're getting close," he said. "Can Fiann show us where she got it?"

She could, and she did. There had obviously been a battle here, and recently. "We're almost to the farmhold," Sigrun said. She squinted up at the sky. "Good thing, because it's getting dark. And you surfacers don't seem to like fighting in the dark."

"It looks like both sides retreated, rather than one side really winning," Nathaniel added. "One or both sides may still be out here."

It was a good point. They hurried on, and reached the rough gate that marked the edge of the farmhold as twilight gathered, turning the world to blues and purples. "Someone's living here," Cullen said, and pointed at the stone wall. "That's been repaired recently."

"About how far do we have to go to get to the hold-house?" Jowan asked Sigrun.

She wrinkled her nose. "Farther than any of us are going to like. Going to be full dark by the time we get there. Not that it bothers  _me_ , and I think that Justice can see in the dark. You three might have more problems."

Jowan tried not to sigh, and mostly succeeded. He glanced at Justice, all six feet and change of him, drawn features indistinct in the gloom except for the faint light in his eyes. "Let's just keep moving. Make some noise. If this is a bunch of mages and Templars, we don't want to look like we're sneaking up on them."

Sigrun grinned. "All  _right_."

And then she proceeded to break into song.

Not just any song, though. Drinking songs.  _Dirty_  drinking songs.

It started out mild, with a version of "Widow Trice" that Jowan had never heard before. Then she went through twelve verses of "The Shaper's Knickers", fourteen verses of "A Nug's Enough For Me", and some genuinely inspired bits of "While M'Wife Were Sleeping".

And  _then_  the songs turned from dirty to  _filthy_.

Jowan kept on waiting for Sigrun's lungs to give out, or her voice, or  _something_. It didn't happen. The spring night was swift to arrive, and they were making their way by starlight. True to her word, Sigrun didn't seem to be bothered at all.

In fact, she seemed to be increasingly  _un_ bothered as they walked on. "Come  _on_ ," she told Cullen. "You know 'Captain Wedderburn', don't you? That's a surfacer song."

"Is that the one with all the silly riddles?" asked the Templar.

"The ones that make no sense? 'Rounder than a ring, higher than the trees, deeper than the sea'? You know it, sing it with me." The dwarf took a deep breath. "The nobleman's fair daughter came down the narrow lane, and met with Captain Wedderburn, the keeper of the gate..."

Grateful that this one was at least merely a bit risque and not actually dirty (Sigrun's rendition of something called "Shave 'em Dry" had been positively  _epic_ ), Jowan joined in, then Nathaniel. After a moment, so did Justice. He had a nice voice for someone months dead.

He barely noticed that Cullen did not join them, and the darkness hid any trouble on the Templar's face.

And so they arrived in the farmhold's main yard, singing  _roll me over next to the wall_.

A slight figure stepped out from the doorway of the main house, a larger shadow at her shoulder. "So just who are you noisy folk?" a familiar voice called. "Our first actual visitors, and they're stinking drunk."

Jowan pulled up, and held up a hand to stop the rest. "Petra? Is that you?"

"Maker's  _Breath_. Jowan? You are  _kidding_  me!" He heard her mutter, and above their heads a magelight flared into being, shedding brilliant while light over the yard. The person behind Petra was Guaire, one of the Templars who had gone with the mages to Amaranthine. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask the same of you." He grinned, unexpectedly glad to have found at least some survivors. "It's Warden Jowan now, actually."

" _Warden_? You found Kathil, then. And the rest of you?" She squinted at Cullen. "You look familiar."

But it was Guaire who spoke. "Cullen? Andraste's  _arse_ , man, is that actually you?"

"It is." Cullen was grinning, and the two men strode toward each other and met in a bone-crushing hug. Belatedly, Jowan remembered that Cullen and Guaire had been friends at the Tower. There were more people coming out of the house and the barn. Jowan saw Keilli and Kinnon—mages, both of them—and there were Bran and Marcus, two of the Templars he was familiar with. There were two more men, tall and broad enough to be Templars, though Jowan didn't recognize them.

And then a well-built man with a familiar squint stepped out of the wellhouse, shielding his eyes with one hand—

 _Oh, sod_ _**me** _ _._

Fiann, seeing the latest arrival, went nearly mad with joy, bounding over to him. The pine-mage, the pine mage, and he has  _hands_  now!

"Hey, pup, I remember you!" Anders dropped to one knee while Jowan attempted to remember if Kathil had ever taught him how to do the stepping-through-walls thing she did. Then the blond mage glanced up, and his hand stopped in mid-ear-ruffle.

"What," he said in a voice that could have frozen lava, "are  _you_  doing here?"

Jowan swallowed. "I, uh. Warden. Looking for you—well, for Petra and the rest. Looks like I found you, too."

Anders had gotten to his feet, and the air was starting to take on a decidedly dangerous feel. Jowan fumbled for words, and didn't find them. A shadow stepped between the two of them—Cullen, looking stern as he'd ever seen him. "Enough, you two. Leave it for the moment." And it was  _completely_  ridiculous to be grateful for the Templar's intervention, but he  _was_.

There were only a few people in Ferelden that he'd genuinely dreaded running into eventually. Anders was one of them. He'd known that Kathil had given Anders some help in freeing himself, but he'd assumed that the mage would run north, take ship, and never be seen again.

As they went into the big, run-down farmhouse, he could feel his fellow mage shooting glances at him that made the frigid air feel positively balmy by comparison. He'd told himself that Anders wasn't one to carry a grudge, that maybe he even understood what Jowan had done to escape the Tower—in general, and to Anders in specific.

It looked like he'd been  _entirely_  wrong.

Kathil's voice rang in his memory.  _You are a Warden. I expect you to sodding well_ act _like one._

"Harder than it looks, sometimes," he muttered as the door of the house swung shut behind him, and all eyes in the room turned to him.

He swallowed, and forced himself to straighten his shoulders. He was going to get through this like an adult, even if it killed him.

Even if, from the dark look in Anders' eyes, it very well  _might._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders disapproves (-20)!
> 
> You have only yourselves to blame if you Google "Shave 'em Dry" while at work. Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> I almost didn't write the wedding scene, believe it or not. I originally intended to leave it out, but as I got close to the end of this chapter I realized that no, it really needed to go in, and it needed to be from Cullen's POV. I was dragging my heels on it because we don't ever actually see an in-game example of a wedding, as far as I know, and weddings are complicated and fraught little pieces of worldbuilding. I finally threw up my hands and went with it.


	3. A Thousand Nameless Hungers

 

 **  
**

In the days after the city was broken,  
we wandered heart-sick and longing, troubled  
by a thousand nameless hungers.  
Fetched up at the gates of the blackened city,  
we gathered and wailed,  _oh the silence!_  
 _Oh the hunger! Where are your songs now?_  
 _Your fountains are dusty, your gardens withered!_

—From The Canticle of Demons, stanza 4: of the Black City

* * *

 _Kathil:_

The seneschal was peering at her as if she had sprouted something worrying but probably harmless from her shoulder. "What do you mean, no?"

She narrowed her eyes in order to avoid rolling them, quashed the first five things that wanted to come out of her mouth, and settled for, "Exactly what I said. I am going to become Warden-Commander. I am  _not_  going to become arlessa."

"But—" Now Varel was starting to look confused. He was a good man, and intelligent, but evidently he'd expected her to fall into line like a good little Warden. "The arldom is awarded to the Grey. By order of the Crown, and the First Warden concurred. You can't _refuse_  it."

 _ **Watch**_ _me._  "I know the situation around here has been complicated," she said. "But, look. That order by Alistair gave Amaranthine to an  _Orlesian_ , and he ended up burning a major port city. In  _any_  other circumstance, that would have been an act of war."

"The darkspawn—"

"I know," she said, derailing Varel before he started talking again. "But there's what happened, and there's what  _looked_  like it happened, and you cannot tell me that people aren't connecting the two things right now." She fought the urge to pace. They were in the main hall of the Vigil, and behind Varel was an older woman who'd identified herself as Mistress Woolsey and a younger chap who was peering at her and Varel with ill-concealed anxiety.  _Garevel,_  she reminded herself. Neither of those two seemed inclined to contribute to the conversation. "We have to admit that it was an experiment, and it _failed_. Spectacularly. If it were anyone else coming into the Warden-Commander position, another try might be workable. But it's me."

"The Hero of Ferelden. I think that still has some currency."

"The  _sodding_  hero of Ferelden is a  _mage._ " She kept her gaze steady, her shoulders straight. Lorn lay beside her, watching the proceedings intently. "And if you haven't forgotten, mages are  _not allowed_  to hold titles. While Alistair might have some brilliant idea about how the Grey is going to rule over this arling, the fact is that unless he gets off of his royal ass and gets some laws changed—not easy, considering that he has to run it by the Landmeet—it is going to continue to be unlawful for the foreseeable future." She held up a hand, forestalling Varel's sputtering. "Also, there's the little fact that it would put everything I want to work for in jeopardy. No matter what happens, I am always going to be seen as a mage of the Circle. My actions reflect on the Circle, whether or not I want them to, regardless of whether it's right or fair that they do. And they reflect on the Grey Wardens."

"Perhaps you should have thought about that before you vanished into thin air," Garevel muttered.

She ignored him. "The Circle has to be seen as politically neutral. We lock mages up in the Tower for many reasons, not the least of which is that we do  _not_  want to turn into Tevinter. If the Circle starts messing with politics, sooner or later it's going to go wrong. Disastrously so. Let the Circle ally with the Grey Wardens, and let  _both_  parties stay as neutral as they can manage. And, last, but certainly not least, one of the reasons that Alistair was likely willing to give over the arldom to the Grey is that Grey Wardens don't generally have heirs. I do." She gave Varel a sharp look. "People have enough difficulty with the idea of an elven bann. If it becomes apparent that the daughter of a mage is the potential heir to an arldom, the Chantry is going to have kittens."

Not that it wasn't already going to have kittens.

Now Varel was looking resigned. "I suppose you have a solution in mind."

"I do. We need a non-Warden, preferably someone who distinguished themselves during the attack on the Vigil and Amaranthine, and who has a history of serving this arling. Someone the banns here can feel comfortable with, but who can also work with me. Preferably someone who understands Grey Wardens. In fact, I think I have the ideal candidate standing right in front of me."

There was a long moment of silence as Varel stared at her, his mouth half-open. "I— _what_? I'm not—I've never—"

"I did some checking," she said over his sputtering. "You've spent your whole life in the service of this arling. You were seneschal under Rendon Howe until he demoted you for objecting to his idiocy. You know this arling, and you've been running the day-to-day business of it for years. I can't think of anyone who's proved better that he has the best interests of Amaranthine at heart."

Mistress Woolsey, behind Varel, was making a face as if someone had sprinkled alum on her tongue. "Seneschal Varel is a competent man, but he is a commoner. Surely, if you  _must_  have someone not a Grey Warden as arl, you would choose someone from the nobility?"

She gave the other woman a sharp look. "Ferelden has a long and storied history of _commoners_  rising to serve this nation. Calenhad was the son of a merchant. We'll need King Alistair to make it official, of course." And that might be more difficult than it sounded. He had  _known_  what the position of Warden-Commander entailed when he'd asked her to take it on, and hadn't even mentioned it to her. She suspected she knew why, and it was at once infuriating that he thought she was so easy to manipulate, and endearing that he was at least  _trying_.

Woolsey pinched her lips shut, and was silent.  _I will need to be careful of her._  Kathil had studied the histories, and often as not it was the accountants who made the difference between victory and defeat. Armies ran on their stomachs, and coin kept those stomachs full.

The First Warden had sent this woman and this woman alone to oversee things for him at Vigil's Keep. She was positioned to do them all immeasurable good, or deepest harm.

Varel seemed to have recovered a bit. "It is an honor, but truly, I cannot accept. I've never wished to rule, only serve."

She gentled her voice, deliberately. "Do we not all serve, Varel? This arling deserves someone who cares about it deeply. It is wounded, and it will take great care to heal. Help me put it back together."

He considered her for a long moment. "What sort of arrangement were you thinking? One that still leaves the Wardens with at least part of the income of the arling, I imagine."

 _Thank Andraste for reasonable men._ "I was hoping to get your opinion, and that of Mistress Woolsey." She shifted her stance, softening her shoulders. "Right now, the Wardens need minimal income—we're paying for repairs to the keep, of course, but we don't have very many actual Wardens to fund." Surprisingly enough, when she'd consulted with Laurens yesterday he'd told her that all Wardens were entitled to a stipend, though not all of them drew it. Kathil had a reasonably staggering amount of back pay owed her at the moment. "And I'd argue that rebuilding Amaranthine is our top priority."

"We have soldiers coming from various arlings, to help keep order and be present just in case one of our northern neighbors gets any ideas," Varel said. "So we have them to keep fed, as well."

"I do have the goodwill of the Crown to draw on, and I may be able to talk Orzammar into at least lending us people and coin, if not making an outright gift."  _Maybe._  From Dagna's letters, Pyral Harrowmont was not precisely the king Kathil had hoped he'd be when she'd chosen him over his Aeducan rival. "I think we can draw up some agreements about how coin and goods flow through the arling, and then write some codicils that divert most of it to the rebuilding effort for the next few years."

Mistress Woolsey was nodding. "I can draft those agreements, and the codicil. The First Warden may have something to say about it, eventually."

"The First Warden sent Ferelden an accountant rather than men and arms," Kathil said. "I assume this means that he thought we needed you."  _Or perhaps he just wanted you away from wherever it is you came from._  "Draw up a draft, I think we can safely assume we'll be arguing over it for a few weeks. I'll write Alistair."

Garevel cleared his throat. "With all due respect, Warden, you may not have to." All eyes turned to the man. "We had a runner come in this morning. The King and Queen are paying an official visit to Amaranthine. They should be here in fifteen days, or so. Evidently, they're waiting for some forces from Redcliffe to join them in Denerim before they travel here."

Kathil hoped that she didn't go quite as pale as she felt.  _I'd hoped to have more time._ "Convenient," she said, and the word sounded forced even to her ears. "Well. I hope that means that they're prepared to help fund the rebuilding. Any other news?"

"Nothing of quite that import. I dropped the messages on Laurens's—your—desk."

"I'll have a look at them later. I don't have anything else, if none of you do." They had only been here for five days; not quite long enough for the Chantry to get its knickers in a knot. That was still coming. Laurens was delaying his departure for the very practical reason that there weren't any ships in what was left of the port. The Waking Sea was in a foul mood at the moment, and vented her displeasure in the form of cold, lashing wind and rain. Only the qunari and certain pirates would risk their ships to the Waking Sea's wrath. As soon as the weather cleared, Laurens would take ship.

He  _could_  go the long way round, but that wasn't precisely practical this time of year, either. The Frostbacks would remain impassible well into late spring. So for the moment, he was here. With any luck, Cullen and Jowan and the rest would be back soon, with news about what had happened to the errant mages and Templars from the Circle. She'd managed to pry out of Laurens that they'd shown up at the Vigil and had been turned away. He had no idea what had happened to them, afterwards.  _I had my hands full,_  he'd told her.

She was still waiting for him to tell her what  _exactly_  had happened over the winter that had left most of the Wardens in the Vigil—fifty-two in all—dead. All she knew was that it had something to do with speaking darkspawn and, improbably, a battle between two factions of darkspawn. She would have thought that Laurens was barking mad, if it hadn't been for the fact that she'd seen the support he had among the Wardens he'd recruited.

They couldn't  _all_ be insane. Could they?

The others demurred, and she nodded to them and retreated, Lorn following. She went in search of Zevran, who'd taken charge of Cerys while Kathil had gone to deal with Varel's impatient request to  _discuss business_ , as he'd put it. Her head was starting to hurt, and Cerys would want a nap just about now.

She found him in the inner ward, talking to Wade and Herren. Herren was holding Cerys, and Wade was dangling a thin chain over the infant, who was chuckling and swiping at it with her hands. "You  _do_  realize that she's a baby and not a kitten, yes?" Kathil said as she drew near. The wind had calmed for the moment, though the sky was still spitting rain and people hurried through the ward with shoulders hunched and cloak hoods up. Lorn loped ahead and barked at Wade, who used his free hand to ruffle the wardog's ears.

Forge-steel man! said the flicking ears and the lolling tongue. Lorn leaned against Wade, so hard that the smith nearly staggered.

"Yes, but  _look_! She  _loves_  it. Perhaps a weight of some sort on the end? A miniature mace? It'll keep her entertained for  _hours_." Wade looked up and appeared to actually see her for the first time. " _You!_  The elf, here, told me you had the  _temerity_  to go and get married and you didn't even let me make rings or bracelets or  _anything_  for you."

Kathil lips twitched into something that felt reminiscent of a smile. A man as tall and broad and with such a very  _big_  moustache as Wade shouldn't pout nearly as effectively as he did. "I don't think Herren would forgive me if I asked you to make jewelry for me. He has enough trouble every time I ask you for a set of armor."

"Oh, no, no, it's no trouble! Really! Bracelets, I think. Dragonbone with silverite chasing? Or maybe gold! No, no, your coloring is all wrong—"

" _Wade_." Herren broke in with a stern look. "The Warden isn't going to commission bracelets from you."

"Oh, but they're going to be a  _gift_!" Kathil exchanged amused glances with Zevran. "I can make them between orders. Really, Herren, everything we've been given recently is so  _dull_. Drakeskin this, red steel that, it's all so tedious."

"You  _like_  working with drakeskin." Herren gave a long-suffering sigh. "You are impossible."

"It is what you get for working with an artist, no?" Zevran said. "And if you will excuse me and this little one, I believe the Warden-Commander has come to fetch Cerys and I."

"That's  _acting_  Warden-Commander at the moment," Kathil said. Herren stepped around his table and deposited a squirming Cerys into her arms, and then went back to arguing with Wade. Lorn left Wade, sniffed Harren politely, and then joined Kathil.

The warhound looked up at her, and at Cerys. Pup is safe?

"I don't think Zevran is about to let anything happen to her," she told the hound. Lorn gave a canine snort of approval in response. "I wish Cullen and Jowan and the rest would get back," she said to Zevran. "Miserable few days out there, and I think Sigrun and Nathaniel at least would like the chance to say goodbye to Laurens." She glanced at her shoulder at Wade and Herren, who had settled into an amiable bickering. "At least those two never change."

"Though I was surprised to find them here. Alistair's meddling, I believe." Zevran quirked one corner of his mouth. "It is good you arrived when you did, else Wade may have attempted to make armor for Cerys. He was certainly enchanted by the possibility."

In Kathil's arms, Cerys stirred, her mouth puckering. She wrinkled her nose as a drop of rain fell on her face. Kathil wiped the baby's cheek with her free hand. "Can you imagine? She'd grow out of it before he was finished." She gave Zevran a sidelong glance. "Varel decided to be reasonable."

"Ah, as I knew he would. Though I would have given much to see the look on his face, when he realized that you had trapped him."

"I did  _not_  trap him." They passed under the portcullis and into the keep. "I simply pointed out certain things. He'll be a good Arl, I think."

"Mmm. You do have a habit of rearranging the leadership of this country to suit your liking."

"Only a very little meddling, except for Alistair." She gave Zevran half a smile as they turned the corner and headed up the stairs to the rooms they shared.

"I think you forget Orzammar," was his reply. "Though, from the sounds of things, your predecessor did some rearrangement of his own. All in good faith, of course. Conspiracies and such. So refreshing; it reminds me of Antiva, all of the delightfully bloody politics. Perhaps my skills will not grow rusty from disuse, yes?" He looked slyly delighted.

"Except that this is Ferelden, not Antiva." Lorn trotted ahead of them, his tail wagging. "Ah, I could sleep for a week, and that infernal wind is starting up again."

"Perhaps not a week, but an afternoon could be arranged," Zevran said. "Come, my Warden. We will curl up together for an afternoon, yes?"

Before Kathil could reply, there was a call of, "Warden! Er, Warden-Commander! Wait!" They turned, and saw the lieutenant who was usually posted on the main door rushing down the hall after them. Nadine's cloak was shedding droplets of water on the stone as she rushed towards them. "A messenger came just after you went inside. Well, not so much a messenger as a Templar. I thought it might be important." She came to a stop and held out a damp piece of folded parchment out to Kathil, who shifted Cerys and took it from her.

"And what did you do with the Templar?" The parchment had the seal of the Tower Templars on it, pressed into red wax.  _Greagoir. This cannot be good._  There was a familiar yawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if the ground under her feet were pitching slightly.

"He went to the chapel, the Sisters will sort him out. If there's nothing else?" Kathil shook her head, and Nadine scampered away.

Their room was not far, and Kathil settled Cerys in the cradle that Varel had managed to dig up from one of the keep's storerooms, then settled down on the big bed with her note. She broke the seal, hoping beyond hope that it was not the one thing she feared—

 _To the Grey Warden Kathil,_

 _I am grieved to tell you that First Enchanter Irving passed in his sleep at the beginning of spring. It was not unexpected, but it is still a great loss for the Circle._

 _More so a loss because there are no suitable candidates for First Enchanter currently resident in the Tower. Irving was of the opinion that either Senior Enchanters Petra or Kinnon would be suitable if they could be somehow recalled from the Grey Wardens, even if they have already joined. If you have found them, and if either can be persuaded to return, we may yet be able to salvage the situation. There are alternatives, but none of them are good._

 _I hope that this message reaches you, and I hope that you are able to convince Petra or Kinnon to return. I have sent other messages, but what I have heard of the situation outside these walls does not give me confidence that those messages will be heeded. We can get along without a First Enchanter for only a short time—until midsummer, no longer. After that, I will have to contact the Grand Cleric of Ferelden and implement one of several unpleasant alternatives._

 _I pray that you have been able to locate our errant mages, and that you can persuade one of them to return._

 _Ser Greagoir, Knight-Commander, the Tower_

Too numb for grief, Kathil sat and stared at the letter, reading the first line over and over again.  _Irving is dead._  "Irving is dead," she repeated aloud, as if saying it would make it real.

Zevran said nothing, only sat beside her on the bed and wound his arms around her. She refolded the letter with shaking hands, leaned into Zevran's familiar and much-welcomed warmth.

 _Irving is dead, and the Circle is without a First Enchanter._

So much had rested on that one heartbeat, that set of shoulders worn thin and frail by all that was on them. She knew the  _alternatives_  that Greagoir had mentioned. The Rite of Annulment was among them, as was the possibility of importing a First Enchanter from elsewhere—perhaps Kirkwall, or Orlais.

Years of careful work by Irving and Greagoir could become so much dust, blown away on an errant breeze. The Grey Wardens stood to lose the alliance that was being built between themselves and the Tower. And the few that were left in the Tower stood to lose their lives.

 _Cullen, Jowan, I surely hope you manage to find Petra and the rest..._

 __

 _  


* * *

  
_

 

 _Cullen:_

He stood at the edge of the dubious shelter of the lean-to, looking up into the steel-colored sky. "I think it's stopping," he said, then winced as a gust of wind threw cold needles of rain into his face. "Maybe," he amended. Fiann was digging enthusiastically in the mid a few yards off.

"If we go north, we won't have to cross the Hafter," Nathaniel said. He was standing next to Cullen, squinting upward. "It'll lose us a couple of days, but then we'll have the road and we can make up some of that. I had almost forgotten what spring is like here."

"Kirkwall was nicer?" Cullen asked. Sigrun had mentioned that Nathaniel had been in the Free Marches for a few years, completely missing the Blight in Ferelden. Cullen had managed to pry out of the man that he'd been stationed in Kirkwall for a time, but nothing more.

"Weather-wise? In a manner of speaking. More heat, fewer storms. The politics were quite a bit more fraught, however." Cullen gave Nathaniel an inquiring look. "Very long story, and my part in it was small. Maybe later."

 _Maybe later_ , with Nathaniel, meant  _never._

Behind them, under their makeshift shelter, the Templars were busy putting together a meal (and when asked why they, of all people, were doing the cooking, Guaire just shrugged and said that Petra liked to experiment with the food, fires burned way too hot around Kinnon and he burned everything, and Keilli tended to forget she was cooking and wander off if she saw an interesting bird), and Anders and Jowan were, as usual, not speaking to each other.

Very, very loudly.

The two of them had been engaged in an escalation of hostilities for the last few days. Cullen wasn't sure where the argument between them was rooted, but it seemed only a matter of time before they graduated from stinging nettles in bedrolls and "accidental" singeings to actual attempts to kill each other. Cullen had always liked Anders, despite the fact that he was a lot of trouble. He was at least  _cheerful_  trouble, unlike Jowan, and also unlike Jowan he was  _useful_. The mages who specialized in healing tended to have a lot of troublesome behavior overlooked, in the Tower.

(Though that was probably unfair. The maleficar Warden had proven that he had skill and power and was willing to put both of them to good use. But Cullen had not missed the fact that Kathil had sent  _him_  out here with Jowan, presumably to keep an eye on him.)

"North it is," Cullen said to Nathaniel. "I'm willing to bet the Hafter is running so high that the south ford we came through is going to be impossible."

Fiann left off her digging, coming back into the shelter. She shook, sending mud flying, and grinned up at him. Cullen wiped his face with one hand, sighing. They were all wet and filthy. He'd stopped objecting to the occasional shower from Fiann a few days ago.

The archer turned towards his packs, running his fingers over the bow he carried in a practiced motion, the same way Cullen would check his sword. "Looking forward to getting back to the Vigil. Altogether a bit wet out here."

"So am I." He looked up at the sky and grimaced. "After we eat, we can set off again. Maybe we can find a farmhold to shelter in for the night."

"And a proper meal," Sigrun said. She stepped into the shelter, out of the rain. "No beasties nearby. Justice will be back soon.  _He_  has no reason to want to get out of the rain. It's all the same to him." She grinned and poked Cullen in the ribs with a hard finger, in the gap that his cuirass didn't cover. "You're in a hurry, I hear."

He never knew quite what to do with the Legionnaire. She made fun of him—she made fun of everyone—but it was all in play. Sigrun  _liked_  people. She even liked  _Jowan_.

And underneath the cheerfulness and the open face lurked the heart of a Dust Town brigand.

"I have a family to get back to," he said. "And I think if we don't get back soon, Anders and Jowan might actually kill each other. Not that it would be much of a loss, but I think the Commander might have some choice words for me about it."

"I  _heard_  that," Jowan growled from the back of the shelter.

"I think I could stand to be shouted at," Anders muttered. "A  _Warden_. Of all the things—"

Sigrun sighed and rolled her eyes. "What is your problem, anyway? All you do is glare at each other and sulk. You'd think you were five, not however old you are."

Cullen cleared his throat. "That's not relevant—"

"Isn't it?" Anders stood, all at once, surprisingly graceful for someone as tall as he was. "Should I tell her what her fellow Warden did in order to get his useless maelficar self out of the Tower?"

"You'd have done the same thing—" Jowan protested. He was standing now as well, holding himself stiffly. Keilli was nearest him, and she flinched away with wide eyes. She'd barely spoken two words to anyone since the Wardens had found her and the rest. Cullen remembered what this mage had been like in the Tower, and gave her a wide berth.

Fiann, beside Cullen, whined softly. He dropped a hand to her head, a restraining gesture. She glanced up at him with worried eyes.

" _First_  you use me to get access to the restricted stacks," Anders snarled. " _Then_  you get me to help you defeat the wards on the books themselves. I can't believe I bought that bit about applications of healing spells you thought you were going to find in those books. And  _then_ , when you'd managed to figure out how to use blood magic, you started  _experimenting_. On the Tranquil."

"I wasn't experimenting, I was—Andraste's Ass, you're never going to listen to me, are you? It was the only way I could keep myself out of Uldred's hands!" Jowan's pale skin had flushed bright red. "I saw what he did to Sati—"

Then he stopped, shuddering.

Anders wasn't listening. "I had to put the Templars you hurt back together after you made your escape," he said, and his voice had gone cold. "I've  _never_  hurt anyone when I escaped. And I especially didn't leave behind a Chantry initiate who was being hauled to the Aeonar by Templars who knew she'd slept with a blood mage. You used me, Jowan. You used me, and you used Lily, and you used Kathil. Not to mention that Tranquil—what was his name? Gelm?"

"I was trying to help." Jowan shook his head. "I thought—if the Rite could be modified—"

"You got lucky that you didn't burn out what was left of his mind! I held my tongue, because I knew that if they figured out who had done it, they'd soon enough figure out how you got into the books in the first place." The mage's normally-affable features were hard. "And here you are.  _Rewarded_  for being a maleficar, because your best friend got conscripted into the Wardens."

"A reward. Is that what you think this is? My  _former_  best friend demanded a phylactery from me when she conscripted me. This is the first time I've been allowed out of her sight for half a year, and she sent her personal Templar to keep an eye on me. I joined the Grey Wardens in hope that I would be able to set something,  _anything_  right. To make things better, instead of making them worse." Jowan spread his hands, and Cullen would swear that the anguish on his face was real. "Look, Anders, I'm sorry. Sorry about what I did to you, and Lily, and Kathil, and I'm even sorry about the stupid _Templars_ , and everything else I've done. But sorry's not why I'm here. I'm here to try to do something  _right_ with the rest of my life."

The two mages glared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Anders snorted and went back to sorting out the variety of dried plants and roots he had with him, evidently not deigning to dignify Jowan's outburst with a response. They were all silent, except for the gusting of the wind and the shushing patter of rain as it picked up once more. Justice loomed out of the rain, stopping at the edge of the shelter to watch them all, a puzzled expression on his face.

Fiann leaned into Cullen, seeking comfort. Two-legs are  _complicated_ , said her drooping ears. She still watched Jowan and Anders, as if seeking some explanation of their behavior that would make sense to a canine mind. Cullen rather wished Lorn were here; Kathil's wardog was older and more experienced in the ways of people, and Cullen had caught him "explaining" things to Fiann on more than one occasion. Mostly things about kitchens, and how to best set her ears to get tidbits, but sometimes about how packs made of people worked.

The meal was a quickly put together, an assortment of salted meat soaked in a pot over the fire, and a vaguely bread-like substance baked in the coals. They ate silently, packed back up, and moved on.

Something was nagging at the back of Cullen's mind. Jowan had mentioned Sati, having seen what Uldred had done to Sati. He'd known that Sati had been one of the Senior Enchanter's protégés, but she had switched mentors right before her Harrowing.

Uldred had been a demon, for how long nobody truly knew, and his coterie of students and sycophants had held themselves apart from the rest of the Circle.

 _What did you know, Jowan, that you didn't tell Kathil?_

Those days were long over, and Sati had been dead for six years. Right now, they had a long, wet walk in front of them, and too much potential trouble in their immediate future to spend time digging it out of the buried past.

He pulled up his cloak hood, and ruffled Fiann's wet ears.  _Keep on._

 __

 _  


* * *

  
_

 

 _Lorn:_

This is a strange territory they are settling into.

It is stone, like the tall stone place that was most recently his territory. But it spreads out instead of goes up, mostly. The territory he will establish is the tallest part, in the center. There are kitchens, storerooms, places that reek of steel and oil and leather, the big room with the huge fire in the center. That is one of his favorite places when the rain is coming down outside, which it usually is.

None of these things are strange.

There are more people who smell like his human and her dust-knight and her mouse-mage do, like hunger and sin. And there are other knights, and other humans and elves and dwarves and even one of the big ones like the one who traveled with their pack before. There are other Mabari, too, and an established pack structure, and sometimes he has to growl and tussle to make his point, that this is now his human's territory and therefore now  _his_. He spends much of his time doing that, when he is not guarding his human or his human's pup.

That is not strange, either.

His human has sent her knight and the mouse-mage and Fiann away, and that is a  _little_ strange. They will come back. But he is not considering that, right now. What he  _is_ considering is a hole.

The hole is  _very_  strange.

He is beneath his new territory now, beneath the place where the smells tell him that people were once imprisoned. There are many tunnels down here, most of them blocked off, but the ones that were clear led him here.

There is a ladder, leading down into the hole. Which argues that some human, someone, knows about it.

But do they know how  _very_  strange it is? Lorn sniffs again, and whines in confusion. Darkspawn, and old bones, and stone, and dwarves. These things are not unexpected.

Sunlight. That  _is_  unexpected. As are so many of the other things that Lorn's nose is telling him—and the fact that they are  _changing._  He thinks he smells Yvrenne, for a moment, a memory of obsidian and blood. He smells healer-mage, and demon, and some soft sweet milk-scent that makes Lorn's tail wag itself. He smells smoke and shattered stone and the insides of bones and dragon breath. Lakewater. Hungry things.

He backs away from the edge, growling. Something is down there. Something unlike anything he has ever encountered.

Lorn's human will want to know, so he turns and lopes up the tunnel, up and up, until he comes out into the place with the statue and the forge in it. (The statue is a signpost, though for some reason the humans get upset when they see the Mabari using it as such.) But when he arrives, Fiann is there! And his human's knight! And other mages and knights and there are voices raised in greeting and his human's elf is hugging the dust-knight and he forgets all about the strange thing beneath this territory for the moment.

He forgets all about it, that is, until he is lying next to Fiann (who had to have a bath before she was allowed indoors) in front of the roaring fire in the big hall. His human is sitting on the steps leading up to a platform. She smells tired, sounds tired. The dust-knight is holding the human pup, and the others who smell of hunger are gathered around except for the one who smells a little like the healer-mage but more like something that ought to have been buried a long time ago. That one stands a little way off.

They are growling and tussling. There was a piece of paper, a few days ago. The paper made his human sad. Now she glances at the dust-knight, and Lorn reads how her shoulders are set, how her hand brushes her leg, and reads  _fear_.

Not fear of the dust-knight. Fear for him, perhaps?

Humans are complicated.

He dozes in front of the fire, Fiann's head on his flank, and sunlight and lakewater invade his dreams.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

Petra crossed her arms. "You can't ask this of me, or of Kinnon. We've come too far to go back now."

The mage's mouth was set in a tight, hard line, her brow furrowed. Beside her, Kinnon looked slightly panicked. Kathil tried to steady her breath, calm the roil of emotions that surged through her. "I like it as well as you do."  _And I would have reacted much as you have, if after six months of freedom someone asked me to go back to the Tower._  "The Tower needs a First Enchanter, and the ranks of Senior Enchanters are very, very thin. There's Iselle, Jerrik, and Liam, and that's  _all_."

"Iselle would be a disaster as First Enchanter," Kinnon blurted, then looked surprised at his words. "I mean, everyone  _likes_  her, she's really very nice. But she's..." He groped for words, frowning.

"She's a pushover, is what you mean," Petra said. "And that's the  _last_  thing a First Enchanter should be. And the other two can no more lead the Tower than a cat can fly. Good mages, but they're  _terrible_  with people."

"You see the problem," Kathil said. "I didn't want to ask either of you to do this. I think both of you would make good Wardens. But I don't think there's much chance of anything good coming of the Circle being annulled, or of inviting foreign mages in to the Circle."

Silence strained between the three of them. That the mages and Templars had been found so easily, Kathil had thought, was a blessing. (It had helped that Sigrun and Nathaniel between them had remembered a number of farmholds that had been decimated by darkspawn, and they'd surmised that a group of sufficiently determined people might hold one of them against the winter.) She'd hoped that Petra or Kinnon would be sufficiently disenchanted by life outside of the Tower, or sufficiently fond of the Circle, to consider going back.

Such was not, it seemed, the case.

 _Nothing can_ ever _be easy, can it?_

"Why not you?" Petra asked. "Irving wanted you as First Enchanter. The other Senior Enchanters who objected are...well, from what you said, they're gone now."

"I have a daughter. Just how well do you think that would end?" Kathil asked. Silent stone, staring Templars, the Chantry ever close at hand, all that rose to her mind unbidden. She raised her hand, touched the Warden's Oath at her throat, dangling on its jeweled chain. "And  _no_ , I am not leaving her with someone to raise for me. I have gone to great lengths to save the Circle from itself. But I will not give up Cerys to save it again."

Petra's eyes were narrowed, but it was Kinnon who spoke. "We left for a reason. The Tower...there's something wrong there. Apprentices dying by their own hands, Templars, mages." He shook his head. "We couldn't stop it. Maker's  _Breath_ , we couldn't even save any of the apprentices. We could just get ourselves out."

 _Ah. That._  She hadn't had a chance to tell them what had happened at the Tower. The news of Irving's death had taken precedence. Her mouth was dry. "Well. There are some things I should tell you."

And she did.

Not all of it. She left out the fact that the demon had followed them to the Brecilian Forest, glossed over Zevran's unwilling participation in the creation of the hole in the Veil. She didn't mention that she had nearly gotten stranded on the wrong side of the Veil, frozen within the dream-image of Urthemiel.

The rest, she gave to them.

When she finished, her throat hurt and her eyes burned. Petra and Kinnon both looked like they were thinking hard. "I never—" Petra stopped, and shook her head. "I never imagined it was a demon. Andraste, the poor apprentices! If we hadn't abandoned them—"

"You had to save yourselves," Kathil said. "You couldn't have known. None of us knew, and would you really have believed the apprentices, if they'd said that the White Lady was real? We've all heard that story, but I don't remember anyone actually believing it."

"A little bit, down deep," Kinnon said, and shrugged. He was looking out the arrow-loop closest to him, apparently focusing on the wind and rain. She knew Kinnon, and knew that it was when he seemed most distracted that he was actually paying the most attention. "I was older than you were when I came to the Circle. Everything was so strange, I wasn't sure what to believe. And you have to admit, thinking that maybe you can summon someone to help if things get  _too_  bad is an attractive prospect, even if you know it's probably just a lie."

"We'll think about it, and talk about it," At least Petra wasn't fuming quite so much any more. "Just out of curiosity...your daughter, she is yours, yes? As in, you carried her? Wynne said that wasn't possible for us."

"She told me the same thing, and it was just as inaccurate when she told you as when she told me. The thing is, the spell that's put on us that prevents conception isn't foolproof. And if you're sleeping with a Templar..." Kathil quirked the corner of her mouth. "Might want to be aware of that, if you're pondering bedding Guaire."

Petra's mouth fell open, and she went white, and then splotchy red. "I—I  _never_ —We're _friends_."

"And I was  _friends_  with Cullen." She drew a long breath. "Look, there are more things you should know about the relationship between mages and Templars, but it can wait for another day. Let's just say that what the Chantry says we have to be to one another is only one of many possibilities. They could be our brothers. Partners. To protect the world from us, us from the world, us from ourselves. And we can do the same for them."

The other two mages were staring at her as if she'd gone mad. "Did Guaire stand at your Harrowing, Petra?" Kathil asked.

"He did—I don't know what this has to do with anything."

Kathil laughed. It felt hollow in her chest. "Neither do I. But Cullen stood at mine, and ever since if he's ever been given a choice he always comes down on the side of protecting me. And I do the same for him." She remembered standing under the unfriendly gazes of her fellow Wardens, daring them:  _do your worst. I am ready._

And an afternoon in the Tower, alone on the back stairs and trying to justify to herself what she had done to her Templar.

Petra was taking long breaths, visibly making an effort to remain calm. "We'll talk more about that later. For now, we should go. Anders was planning to challenge the Dalish warden—Velanna, yes?—to a duel of some sort. He was saying something about some counterspell he was working on..."

Now that Kathil was thinking about it, she  _had_  heard Velanna fuming about the mage who dared believe that he could counter  _anything_  she did. "Please tell me you're kidding. I'm not sure that Velanna's acquainted with the concept of pulling her punches, so to speak."

"Or anything remotely resembling social skills," Kinnon muttered. "Let's go make sure that they haven't killed each other."

They piled out of the small room Kathil was currently using as an office and went in search of Velanna and Anders. At least it would be a nice change from Anders and Jowan sitting at opposite corners of the great hall, glaring at each other. Kathil didn't know what their precise problem was, but she could guess at what it might be. Jowan had done a lot of stupid things in the name of getting out of the Tower, and Anders had always been too helpful for his own good.

She'd thought things were going well, that she'd be able to have the Vigil well in hand and the issue of the empty First Enchanter position decided by the time Alistair and his entourage arrived. It would have been nice to be able to hand over the disposition of the arldom as a fait acompli, to be able to simply offhandedly mention that Petra or Kinnon had taken over as First Enchanter...

 _And oh, by the way, I've had a daughter and gotten married since the last time I saw you._

Right now, she didn't know if she were anticipating or dreading the arrival of the King and his entourage. Both, really.

She went to deal with a pair of quarrelsome mages, and tried not to think about everything looming that she was not dealing with.

Two days later, word came from Amaranthine that a qunari vessel had been sighted off the coast.


	4. Our Antebellum Innocence

And the city, burned and dimmed with smoke  
screamed a reply:

 _I have no Voice, no sustenance!_   
_My Maker is departed, the mortals_   
_who tread my streets mere shades!_

 _I am a pit-black place where all kindness fails._   
_I am a yawing hunger that admits no sweetness._   
_I am That Which Devours._   
_I am sere, sooty, terrible in my anger._   
_Surely I will shatter, crumble,_   
_nibbled into nothingness by the relentless_   
_waters of this world!_   
_Surely I will end!_

—from the Canticle of Demons , stanza 4: of the Black City

 _*****_

 _  
_

_Jowan:_

“Are you _sure_ you can’t assign me elsewhere?” he asked the woman who had once been his best friend, and now was his commander.  Kathil’s expression might have been carved from stone, for all the expression it held.  “Soldier’s Peak?  Ostagar?  I could go to Montsimmard with Laurens—”

“And if the other Orlesian Wardens take the same dim view of mages as Montclair did?”  She arched an eyebrow, then glanced out the window.  “Andraste’s little apples. What is it _now_?”  There was a commotion rising from the courtyard below them, drowning out the sound of wind and rain.  “Jowan, the answer is no, and you’re going to have to learn how to deal with Anders if he survives the Joining.”  She went to the window, unlatching the casement and leaning out.  

“I had to ask.”  The last week had been an exceedingly uncomfortable one.  It was as bad as his first weeks with the Wardens, with the added discomfort of having more eyes on them all.  The news that a qunari vessel had been spotted by the watchers on the coast—seen once and then not again—had added a new layer of tension to the proceedings.  

 _Probably just a scout ship,_ Kathil had said.   _Looking at our defenses._

But there had been something about how she’d said it that made Jowan believe that she feared that it was much, much more.  And now there were raised voices in the courtyard below.  It was impossible to make out what was being shouted , but it was definitely angry.

“Maker’s _Breath_ , that’s one of the banns—”  Kathil left the window open and scurried toward the door of her makeshift office.  “Let’s get down there.”

Cullen had joined them by the time they hit the main hall, where the commotion had moved.  Laurens was already there, as was Varel and a group of well-dressed people apparently led by a tall, bald man.  “Calm down, Eddelbrek,” Laurens said to the bald man.  “Please.  Whatever this is about, we can’t start solving it until we can talk about it rationally.”

“There is _nothing_ rational about my people starving to death,” Eddelbrek said.  “I told you in the autumn that this was going to happen unless you sent men to protect the farms.  Between the darkspawn and the lack of food in our stores, we will be lucky if we have anyone left to do the planting this spring.  The darkspawn ruined much of the harvest last year, and it is a blow we will _not_ recover from without help.  And as go the plains, goes the arling.”

Varel chose that moment to clear his throat.  “Bann Eddelbrek, there is someone here you should meet.  Acting Warden-Commander Kathil?”

Apparently recognizing a cue when she heard one, Kathil stepped forward.  Jowan stayed where he was, Cullen next to him, neither of them sure of what they were supposed to do here.  “Gentlemen, ladies,” she said, pitching her voice to carry into the crowd.  “Like Laurens said, we need to talk about this rationally, and I need to understand what the issues are and what resources there are to solve them.  Please, let’s all sit down.  You’ve all had a long, wet journey.”

The tall bann gave Kathil a sharp look.  “Acting Warden-Commander.  Does that mean you are taking over for Laurens?”

Laurens broke in with, “I have been recalled to Montsimmard.  Warden Kathil Amell—you _may_ recognize the name—is stepping up in my place.  I am here to ease the transition as I can.”

Eddelbrek’s countenance darkened.  “She is to be arlessa?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet,” Kathil said.  “I will be taking the Vigil, at least.  The disposition of the arling is still under discussion.”

There was a slowly spreading horror coming over the bann’s face, and over those behind him.  Jowan saw the realization of who this woman was, and _what_ she was, come over the assembled throng.  It would almost be funny, the stricken looks in their eyes, if it wasn’t accompanied by a sick sensation in the pit of Jowan’s stomach.  He’d seen this so many times, as a stranger realized that the person standing in front of him was a mage.

 _She fought for you, for all of you.  She nearly died a hundred times over, I’ve seen the scars.  And still you look at her as if you expect a demon to come bursting out of her body at any moment._

Jowan stepped forward, and Cullen beside him moved in the same moment.  The arrived silently on either side of Kathil, and Jowan found himself wishing that Zevran and Lorn were in attendance.  Jowan did his best to radiate _we are Grey Wardens and you **do not mess** with the Wardens_, but he feared that he looked slightly ridiculous.  Cullen, on the other hand, had an impressive glower on him.  

Neither of them spoke, but he could see some among the assembled crowd sway back, just a little.  Eddelbrek, no fool, bowed his head just slightly.  “We should speak, then.”

Kathil turned to Varel.  “If you could see to the comfort of our guests?  Gentlemen, ladies, I will be with you shortly.”  She showed no flicker of tension as Varel stepped forward and she stepped back, then turned and walked from the hall.  Cullen and Jowan followed.  

“What are you going to do?” Jowan asked as they walked down a long stone hallway.  Kathil seemed to be heading for the practice grounds; reasonable enough considering that Zevran had taken Cerys down there along with both Mabari.

She grimaced.  “I’m going to feed Cerys and collect Zev and Lorn.  Cullen, you and Fiann will need to come with me.  I knew this was coming, but I was hoping it would be after Alistair had been and gone and the arling was settled.”

“And me?” Jowan asked.

“Warn the other Wardens that we have guests,” she said.  “If you can convince Justice to stay out of sight—”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, feeling an abrupt stab of horror.  If was not necessarily _completely_ obvious on first glance that the Fade spirit was what he was, but he took quite a bit of explaining to people who hadn’t met him before.  Especially since being a spirit of Justice apparently meant he had never even heard of this human thing called _tact_.  

Jowan still wasn’t comfortable around the spirit.  He always looked at Jowan like he could stare holes through him, like he could see Jowan’s soul and he wasn’t particularly pleased with what he observed.  Then again, few people were comfortable around him.  Nathaniel and Sigrun liked him, Laurens trusted him like no other, and Oghren treated him just about as badly as everyone else.  The rest of the Wardens, Justice simply made...uneasy.

They arrived at the practice ground at the back of the keep; Zevran was sparring against Nathaniel, blades flashing.  At one side of the ring, Velanna was sitting on a bench with Cerys in her lap, watching the proceedings.  Next to her, Sigrun was sharpening a blade.  The two Mabari were at their feet, though after catching sight of them Lorn and Fiann both got up and came over to their respective humans.  

Kathil dropped down on the bench next to Velanna, who handed her the baby without comment.  Jowan watched Zevran and Nathaniel.  Zevran was arguably the better fighter, through Jowan would take Nathaniel’s bow at his back any day.  

It was oddly comforting to watch them, to hear the metallic grate of Sigrun’s whetstone on her blade.  Even the barbed silence that seemed to be Velanna’s default state was starting to feel familiar.  It had been a long time since Jowan had been anywhere he could consider home.  Maybe Flemeth’s little house in the Wilds; at least there he’d had company who knew what he was, even if she _was_ a crazy, insufferable old woman.

Still, that had lasted a matter of months, long enough for spring to turn to high summer, and then it had ended.  He wasn’t sure he trusted this new situation, this place, all that much yet.

Zevran closed with Nathaniel.  The archer staggered, briefly off-balance, and Zevran drove his shoulder into the other man’s chest.  They went over in a graceless heap, and when the dust of the ring settled Zevran’s dagger was at Nathaniel’s throat.

“And that is that, I believe,” the elf said with a grin.  He rolled abruptly away and got to his feet, leaving Nathaniel to pick himself up off the packed dirt.  Zevran sheathed his blades.  “Sigrun, it is your turn, yes?”

Sigrun grinned and dropped her whetstone into the leather bag next to her.  “Yep.  Nate, you are a glutton for punishment.”

“The only way to learn.”  Nathaniel quirked one corner of his mouth.  “I’ve lost to the assassin.  Now I will see if I can best the Legionnaire at her own game.”

“Best two out of three.”  And _that_ was a losing bet, since Jowan knew that the little dwarf was capable of incredible endurance.  She could, and would, keep fighting long after the rest of them had dropped.  

“I know better,” Nathaniel said.  “One more, then I’m done.”

Kathil and Zevran left, quietly, and Cullen followed.  The Mabari were at their heels, Fiann carrying the much-gnawed section of mage staff she’d found on their trip and had refused to leave behind.  Evidently staves made for glorious chewing.

Jowan stayed where he was next to Velanna and watched Sigrun beat the metaphorical pants off of Nathaniel.  Oghren came roaring through, if anything drunker than usual.  Jowan was under the impression that the dwarf had always had a drinking problem, but from the look that Sigrun exchanged with Nathaniel as the warrior stormed off, it was getting worse.

Between that and Kathil’s refusal to answer any questions about whatever history might lie between her and Oghren, there might be a storm approaching from within the Vigil, as well as from without.

Jowan would have to go and track down the rest of the Wardens, soon.

For the moment he watched and thought about homes, and the leaving of them.

*****

 _Cullen:_

The Vigil’s hallways echoed around him as he walked toward his room, the walls giving him back his footsteps.  The clicks of Fiann’s claws on the stone pattered in counterpoint to his slower steps..  The place was almost peaceful, this late at night, when the only ones wakeful were those on duty.  Cullen was heading for bed; he and Guaire had sat under the eaves on the battlements for hours tonight, drinking small mead and catching up.  

It had been the first time he’d been able to talk to a fellow Templar about what had happened to him when he’d been sent away from the Tower and into the dubious safety of the Grey.  Guaire had wanted to know what life was like as a Warden, and about how the withdrawal from lyrium had affected Cullen’s talents.

He hadn’t asked about Cullen’s relationship with Zevran, or what was going on between him and Kathil.  Cullen _had_ managed to pry some details out of Guaire about the winter that he and the rest of the Tower refugees had spent holed up in a little farmhold in the middle of nowhere.  Hobart, one of the mages, had died of the combined effects of one of the coughing diseases and an attack by winter-maddened wolves.  The mage would have survived his injuries, if he hadn’t been weakened by illness.  Guaire was obviously not easy in his soul about it.

They were used to losing mages to demons, or to the effects of magic gone awry.  Not to battle wounds.

Guaire said little enough about Petra, but even his silence on the subject of her was deafeningly loud.  There was obviously a strong connection between the two of them, though at least on Guaire’s side it seemed to be free of the sort of longings that had drawn Cullen to Kathil.  

“I couldn’t let Petra go alone,” was Guaire’s only comment when Cullen had asked him why he’d left the Tower.  It had been so strange, to sit across the table from his old friend and read that mixture of commitment and uncertainty in his expression.

This was a path that none of them knew how to navigate.

 _I suppose we’re all making it up as we go along._

He was almost at his door when he heard a familiar noise from down the hall—the wail of an infant.  Cerys was about seven weeks old now, and he’d had time to learn what some of her cries meant.  This one was that inconsolable wail that she got when she was tired and yet couldn’t be soothed to sleep.  Cullen paused, then headed down the hallway.  Fiann gave the door a longing look—she had been fast asleep at his feet earlier, and her drooping ears clearly said that she did _not_ like her human keeping such late hours—but followed.

He’d barely seen Cerys today, not to mention Zevran or Kathil.  Kathil had been closeted with the banns who were _still_ lingering despite it having been ten days since they’d arrived, still wrangling over who was going to get what from the Vigil’s treasury.  Zevran and Cullen took turns being Kathil’s guard during these long sessions, and today had been the elf’s turn.

The door to the sitting room next to Kathil’s bedroom was slightly ajar, and as Cullen approached the baby’s crying momentarily doubled in intensity.  Cullen pushed the door open, ready to smile and offer to take the baby for a bit and see if he could get her calmed—

Kathil was sitting on a low couch, rocking Cerys, and both of them were crying.  

Lorn was sitting with his head on the couch next to Kathil, his brow furrowed.  He lifted his head, giving an interrogatory sniff.  The pup was upset, his human was upset.  He flicked an ear and whined briefly.   _Do_ something.

The mage didn’t so much as glance up as Cullen crossed the room and sat down next to her.  “Here,” he said.  “I’ll take her.”  He lifted her from Kathil’s arms, feeling tension and indignation in Cerys' small body, one fist waving as if clenched around an air current.  Fiann came to sniff noses with Lorn.  Both wardogs seemed to decide that the matter was well in hand, and settled down nose to tail, Fiann’s head on Lorn’s hip.

Next to him, Kathil scrubbed her face with her sleeve, and then leaned against Cullen’s shoulder.  “She’s not hungry, doesn’t need changing, doesn’t want to be picked up _or_ put down.  I’m out of ideas.”  

“Where’s Zevran?” he asked.

“Keeping an eye on one of the banns for me,” Kathil said.  “After this afternoon, I’m not sure I trust Lady Liza not to do something stupid.”  The negotiations with the banns were rapidly deteriorating; Cullen had heard that this afternoon’s session had ended with screaming and shouting.  At this point, they were trying to delay long enough to allow Alistair and his retinue to get here.  “I really ought to be able to get through a whole evening by myself, but— _Maker_ , I don’t think I’m much _good_ at this.”

“Good at what, exactly?” he asked.  He rocked Cerys a little, trying to settle her.  Her wailing was starting to trail off into a kind of hiccupping crying, and Cullen was uncomfortably aware of Kathil leaning against him.  

“ _Everything_.”  She made a sharp gesture with one hand, a wave that encompassed the entire Vigil.  “Being Warden-Commander.  Trying to get a bunch of quarrelsome banns to see that we all have to work together if we’re going to keep this sodding arling in one piece.  Getting Kinnon or Petra to go back to the Tower.”  Her head tipped forward slightly.  “Being a mother.”

And what, precisely, did one say to _that_?

“You’re doing all right,” he said, fumbling for words.  “The banns will just take some time, and I think Petra is coming around.  And Cerys is _fine_ , she’s healthy as anything and she’s happy, I mean usually, and—”  He stopped.  “Oh.  Just come _here_.”

It was a little awkward to arrange to hold Cerys on his lap and sling one arm around Kathil’s shoulders.  She had started crying again, more tears than he had ever seen from this little mage before, and there was a wordless pain inside of him, that there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to make this better.   _She will have bad days,_ Ilse had told him.   _All mothers do, especially new ones._

Cullen supposed this qualified, but—he wished he could do something other than hold their daughter with one arm and Kathil with the other.  It was what he could do for the moment, though, and after some time Cerys fell asleep, and Kathil stopped crying and rested where she was.  Silence stole over them, and Cullen was a little afraid to move, for fear of disturbing the fragile balance that the moment had fallen into.

But disturb it he must.  “To bed, with both of you,” he said.  “Come on.”  He cradled Cerys against his chest, feeling her warm, sleeping weight in his arms—nothing in the world felt quite like a slumbering infant—and got to his feet.  Kathil, after a moment, followed suit.

They went into her room in silence, moonlight shining on the bed where rumpled blankets bore mute witness to a restless night.  The dogs followed and settled onto the big pillow at the foot of the bed.  Cullen laid Cerys in her cradle, the infant making a small whimper as he pulled a blanket over her but not waking.  He gave a silent sigh of relief.

He turned, intending to leave, but Kathil was standing in the center of the room, and the look on her face gave him pause.  A small flame kindled in his gut, somewhere between nervousness and anticipation, fragile as a dragonfly’s wing.  “Stay,” she said, her gaze meeting his.  “Please.”

He stepped forward and so did she, and a heartbeat later he was holding her, her face tucked into his shoulder and the past weighing on both of them, everything that had gone wrong between them, everything that had gone right.  

Cullen bent his head a little, and his lips grazed her hair.  He breathed in the scent of her chased with the starlight edge of magic and lyrium, thin as a whisper, a blade.  “I’ll stay.”

Kathil raised her head, and a moment after that her mouth was on his.  Her lips were tentative at first, as if she wasn’t sure what his reaction was going to be.  His return of the kiss was equally slow as they tasted each other’s mouths for the first time in half a year, since the shadows had claimed him that night as they had camped on the road to the Tower.

 _Maker_ , he wanted her, had been wanting her, hadn’t admitted to anyone just how much.  He’d even denied it to himself.  A feeling akin to dizziness broke over him in a wave.  He broke the kiss, took a deep breath to try to clear his head.  

It didn’t work.

“I...probably shouldn’t have done that,” Kathil said.  Cullen could feel her hands on his back, her hands fisted tightly in his shirt.  “I mean, _yes_ , I wanted to, but I just—”  She breathed out, set her forehead against his shoulder again.  “I swore to myself I wasn’t going to do this again.”

“What, exactly?  Kiss me?”  He tried to keep his voice light, though the heady feeling in his chest was swiftly being replaced by concern.  “Because I didn’t mind.  At all.”

“This.  Just...everything.”  She took a breath.  “Have you thought about what you and I are to each other?  Not personally, but as mage and Templar.  If the worst happens, Cullen, you’re going to be the one responsible for ending it for me.  If we’re involved with each other...”

Cullen shook his head.  “If it comes to it, you won’t be _you_ any more,” he said.  “And it’s my job to see that the worst doesn’t happen.”  There was a suspicion curling around his heart.  “We’ve been through this.  What’s this really about?”

“Mmm.  Zevran has been teaching you bad habits.  Like figuring out when I don’t want to talk about something.”  She turned a bit in his arms, and one of her hands found his.  Her fingers were icy.  “There are days that I don’t like myself very much.  I’ve taken your whole _life_ , and I’ve twisted it into something unrecognizable.  I’ve done what I had to, but—”  She stopped, and sighed.  “I know that the lyrium madness is unlikely to take you again, but that’s a few months it’s going to take me some time to forget.”

 _Ah.  I see._

He intertwined his fingers with hers.  “The course my life has taken isn’t your fault, Kathil.  And even if it were, I’ve had experiences that I never would have had as a Templar in the Tower.  I wouldn’t give up any of it.  The good or the bad.  I would never have had a family other than the Chantry, and now I have the Wardens, and I have Cerys, and Zevran.  And you.  And Jowan, I suppose.”  He tightened his hand on hers, felt her fingers curl in return.  “Everything else...well, it’s going to take time, is all.  We have time.”   _Maker, I hope we have time._  He hadn’t forgotten the despair demon, or the deal Kathil had struck with it.

She leaned into him, a hard curve of flesh and bone.  “We do, at that.”  

They stayed like that for a moment, silent, and the spinning feeling in Cullen’s chest abated.  “I can go,” he said.  “If you want.”

Kathil glanced up at him, and he saw the brief foxfire gleam of the Fade in her pupils.  “I want you to stay,” she said, her voice soft.  “Besides, it’s evidently a night for Cerys to want her fathers.  Zevran won’t be back until near dawn.”

He nodded, and after a moment and some slightly awkward negotiation, they curled under the blankets on the bed.  Both of them left their shirts on.  

He woke as the window was beginning to pale with dawn, finding himself with Kathil on one side, and Zevran on the other.  The elf insinuated a possessive arm over Cullen’s waist, resting his hand on Kathil’s hip.  He said nothing, and Cullen closed his eyes again and was almost immediately asleep once more.

It was enough, for now.

*****

 _Kathil:_

 __She paused in the corridor outside of the Warden-Commander’s office, hearing a familiar, strident voice coming from within.   She pressed herself to the wall, quietly casting the veil of unseeing over herself.

“I am coming with you., and that is _final_.”

There was a heavy sigh.  Then Laurens spoke.  “I am returning to my family, Velanna.  You can’t—”

“That’s what you may tell yourself.”  Her voice was a knife, hard and sharp.  “You’re going after him.  And I am coming with you.”  A pause, and then Velanna’s voice softened.  “He has my sister.  You saw her.  If I find him, then I find her.”

“I suppose there’s nothing I can say that will dissuade you?  I didn’t think so.  Fine.  I sail tomorrow.”

There was a brief silence then, and a rustle of movement.  Then Velanna emerged and walked down the corridor with long strides.  After she was gone, Kathil released the unseeing and stepped away from the wall  It was not the first time she had used that spell to avoid an awkward conversation, and it was certainly not going to be the last.

She rapped on the doorframe of the office and stepped inside.  The Warden-Commander’s desk was almost clear; almost everything had been transferred to Kathil, now.  She was waiting until Laurens left to take this office for herself, out of courtesy.  

The Orelsian was standing by the window, looking out.  He turned to see Kathil, then waved at the chair across the desk from him.  He took his own chair, folding his hands.  “What can I do for you?”

She kept her gaze steady on him.  “It’s been weeks since I arrived, and you haven’t told me what happened this winter.  I need to know what happened with the Mother and the Architect.”

From the look on Laurens’ face, he had been dreading this conversation.  “Then I will tell you, since I leave on the morrow.  I warn you, this tale is not a pretty one.”

And it was not.

Kathil listened with a growing sense of horror, and a newfound appreciation for the trials that had knit the Wardens of the Vigil into a cohesive unit.  At the end, when Laurens told her about his decision to let the Architect go, she wanted to stand up and scream, _why?  Why?  Why would you?_

But she knew why.  The Architect had held out a hope, of a sort; an end to all Blights, forever.  And she had seen something shuttered in Laurens’ eyes, when he looked at Velanna.  He had been away from home a long time.

He had let the Architect go for hope, and for the Dalish mage.

It had been a foolish decision, and it was probably been wrong.  But in his boots, she could not know if she would have done anything different.

Still.  It begged the question: was this what happened when the last Old God was destroyed?  When the last remnant of the song they pursued was silenced?  Would the darkspawn gain sentience, and in the process go mad?

Kathil tried to imagine several thousand Mothers, all of them grieving the loss of the only thing that had kept them from being aware of what they were.  What they had been created to be.  

She was glad she wouldn’t be alive to see it.

“And then, there is this.”  Laurens rummaged briefly in a desk drawer, coming up with something small.  He slid it across the desk towards Kathil.

It was the tooth of some creature, yellowed with age and bound to a leather thong.  Kathil picked it up and turned it over in her hand  It was smooth, almost unnaturally so; she could well imagine someone fidgeting with it constantly for years, wearing the surface to that strange sheen.

“I took it from the Mother’s neck, after I killed her,” Laurens said.  “At the time, I wasn’t sure why.”

Kathil looked down at the tooth in her hand.  It lay in her palm, innocuous.  “That implies you’ve discovered a reason since.”

“A theory.  I’ve seen necklaces like this before, mostly worn by people from the Free Marches.  It may be an identifying token of some group there, some family.  The Mother was human, before she was captured.”

“You think you can find out who she was.  Before.”

“I thought I could.  But I’m not sure if it’s right if I do.”  He shook his head.  “So I give it to you.  Do with it what you will.”

She closed her hand around the tooth, feeling the edge of it biting at her palm.  Even if they could discover the Mother’s origins—what would they tell her former family?   _Your daughter, your wife, your mother, she was captured by the darkspawn, tortured and raped, turned into one of them, and spent her days giving birth to more of them until finally a Grey Warden put a sword through her._

No. No one wanted to hear that.  And the existence of the broodmothers was a closely guarded secret.

 _Well.  You wanted to know.  And now you do._

“Thank you,” she said after a moment.  “And good luck in Montsimmard.”

“I think you’re going to need the luck more than I do,” he pointed out.  

She gave him a half-smile.  “Duly noted.”  She paused for a moment, then said, “And were you planning on telling me that Velanna is going with you?”

His dark look was sour but not at all surprised.  “I expected her to take care of that detail.  She has made no secret of being unhappy at the prospect of being under your command.”

“You mean she’s taken exception to my relationship with Zevran.  I know.”  It wasn’t unexpected—but she had hoped Velanna would be more a Grey Warden than a Dalish elf.  It would have been nice if _one_ of Zevran’s people had respected his choice of what to do with his life. 

Then again, Kathil thought that in Velanna’s case, there might be a very _personal_ reason that Zevran’s marriage to a shemlen would bother her.  

“There is no rule keeping us here, and she has little loyalty to Ferelden as a country,” Laurens said.  “She will seek her sister.”

There was so much Kathil might have said, more she might have asked.  But in all of their dealings with each other, there had been a thread of grace: a silent agreement that there were things it was far better to leave unsaid.  Laurens did not like her, but if nothing else he respected what she was.  As she respected what he was, and what he had accomplished.

They would have to leave it at that, it seemed.

She rose to her feet.  “Good journey to you, if I don’t see you.”  Laurens inclined his head towards he, and she returned the gesture.  Then she was walking out of his—soon to be her—office.  

Tomorrow, she would no longer be merely the acting Warden-Commander.  Her post would begin in earnest.  

 _I will be equal to this task._

 _I do not have the option_ not _to be._

*****

 _Alistair:_

Vigil’s Keep reared against the sky, rising from the cold spring mud.  It was a _very_ welcome sight.  Alistair had done a lot of traveling in his day, but—

“That _child_ is staring at me.  Again.”

He pulled his head back into the carriage, and looked at Rima.  She was holding Duncan on her lap, the boy protesting and squirming silently.  She was glaring out the other window.  Leliana and her ward, Murena, were riding alongside the royal carriage.  

The girl had an unnerving habit of staring at people as if she were attempting to peer inside of them.  It would have been bad enough if the girl were normal, but no, it was all too obvious why Leliana had taken on the girl as an apprentice.  She was preternaturally fast, intelligent for all that she spoke so little, and she had a certain feral quality about her.  She was going to be a terrifyingly good bard some day.  Alistair only hoped that she would be that bard somewhere _away_ from his country.

As it was—

“She’s a little girl, and from what Leliana says she’s been terribly mistreated.  She probably thinks you’re the prettiest thing she’s ever seen, Rima, and you know she likes other children.”   _Liking_ was probably a misstatement.  They’d discovered her crouched in Duncan’s nursery twice in the space of the three days that Leliana and the Redcliffe guard she had been traveling with had been in the palace in Denerim.   _She was just_ there _, and_ whispering _to him!_ Duncan’s terrified nurse had claimed.  “Whoa now, Duncan—”

The little boy had wiggled free of his mother’s grip and lurched towards Alistair.  The movement of the carriage was enough to make _anyone_ lose their balance, much less someone who had only started walking a month ago.  Alistair lunged forward, battle-trained reflexes rescuing his small son from cracking his head against the bench or the floor.

Duncan shrieked, apparently mortally offended that he had been rescued from certain death.  Again.  He squalled angrily and kicked as Alistair lifted him and sat the boy on his lap.  “He is going to be the _death_ of me,” Rima said.  “Take your eyes off of him for a _moment_ and he’s trying to throw himself off of things.”

Alistair set Duncan on his lap and the boy settled down, muttering something that sounded like, “Dadadadadadadadadada.”  Alistair didn’t blame him for being restless.  It had been a long journey, and the carriage was punishingly confining for all of them.  Left to his own devices, Alistair would have ridden.  Unfortunately, Rima was many things, but a horsewoman was not among them.  Equines of all sorts only barely tolerated her, and the dislike was mutual.

Not to mention that they were, arguably, safer within the carriage.  Bandits taking potshots at Alistair was one thing; it didn’t happen that often these days, and he was a Warden.  Being shot at was in the job description.  

It was another thing _entirely_ to think of someone attacking his son.

Duncan started chewing on the edge of Alistair’s sleeve.  He removed the cloth from his son’s mouth, and glanced out the carriage window again, past the swaying curtains.  

Ahead of them, just barely glimpsed, were men in armor.  A _lot_ of men in very familiar-looking armor.  Out the other window, he could see Leliana’s face take on a look of concern.  She rode closer to the carriage.  “Templars,” she called over the rumble and squeak of the wheels.  “At least twenty.  Maybe more.  They’re in a hurry.”

Templars were never in a hurry for any good reason.  They probably weren’t rushing to a party, for example.  Alistair stuck his head out the window again.  “Let’s get moving,” he said.  “ _Quickly._ ”

They weren’t far from the gates of the Vigil, and the guard appeared to have been warned that there might be a royal procession coming through their gates.  They made it through the outer ward quickly enough.  Alistair’s guard kept the gawkers at a distance.  After a quick, tense consultation with Emris they divided their forces; Rima and most of the royal guard would stay in the inner ward, and Alistair, Leliana, and some of the rest of the guard would go into the keep proper.  If they hadn’t spied the Templars, they would have followed a more ordinary protocol for a royal visit, and Rima and Duncan would have gone into the hall with them.

As it was, he kissed Rima and then his son, and then strode up the stairs to the great doors that marked the entrance to the keep.  Leliana was beside him, looking grim.  They were followed by a flustered door-guard who looked like she was at an utter loss as to what to do with them, and ten of Alistair’s guards.

At the end of the long entrance hall, the doors were standing open, and he could hear raised voices coming from inside.  One voice in particular was very familiar.

“—and in conclusion, _gentlemen_ , I am _not_ about to roll over and let you do this.”  As Alistair and Leliana passed through the arched doorway and into the hall, Alistair’s eyes swept the room, long years of battle experience having taught him that he could not combat danger he was not aware of.

Templars, check.  A group of people in clothing that nearly shouted that they were nobility, check.  Elven assassin and scowling Templar flanking one very cranky-looking Warden-mage, check.  Pair of Mabari, check.  (And was that Cullen’s puppy? She was _enormous_.)  Dark-haired, familiar-looking mage-type lurking behind Kathil, check.  Seneschal Varel and a motley crew of Wardens, check.

Hands starting to reach for swords?  Also, check.

“We have orders from Mother Leanna,” the leader of the Templars said.  It was Knight-Commander Maron, who Alistair had met a few years ago (though he really doubted the man remembered; just another traveler, passing through Lothering).  He was ostensibly assigned to Amaranthine’s Chantry, but—

“Let me be _perfectly_ clear.”  Kathil’s voice held an edge of violence in it.  The feeling of an approaching storm pressed in on Alistair, as if lightning were lurking just the other side of the Veil.  From the way that the Templars shifted, they could feel it as well.  “The is a Grey Warden fortress.  The Chantry _has no sovereignty here._ ”  She was glaring at the Templar, but as Alistair and those with him came to a halt at the other side of the firepit in the center of the hall, she glanced at them.

Alistair had seen Kathil blanch like that before, but rarely.  But even as she faltered, he could see in her dark eyes something like a voracious hope.  She turned back to the Templars.  “We will need to continue this discussion later.  We have august company.”  She turned toward Alistair, and raised her voice as a ripple of murmur spread among those present.  “Your Majesty.  I bid you welcome to Vigil’s Keep.”

She swept a showy bow, and the nobles as one dropped to one knee.  The Wardens, befitting their status as members of no nation, merely bowed.  After a moment, the Templars too went to one knee in a rattle and crash of armor.

Into that silence Alistair spoke.  “And it is good to be here, though it seems you are having a bit of trouble.”

“Merely a _discussion_ with the good sers.”  The scar on her face turned her smile sardonic.  “Ser Maron, the chapel in the fortress will see to your comforts.  Gentlemen and ladies, we are done for the day.  I have much to discuss with the King.  A full court will be held on the morrow, at the usual time.”  She glanced at Alistair, and then past him, and her eyes warmed as she saw Leliana.   “Alistair, I can’t imagine that this is your full retinue.”

“Not nearly.”  He turned to the guard who was stationed on his shield side.  “Tell Emris it’s all right to bring everyone in.”  The man nodded and hurried away, past banns who were filing out the double doors under the watchful gazes of the Wardens.  The Templars, evidently deciding that discretion might be the better part of valor, were retreating out the side doors.  Soon enough , Emris returned with Rima and Duncan in tow, the boy having evidently decided that he needed to be carried.  

Murena trotted beside them, her sharp face looking all around, taking in post and beam, fire and Wardens.  She came to Leliana and slipped her small hand into the bard’s.

Kathil was conferring with the mage who looked familiar—Jowan, it had to be.  He handed her something.  It looked, from here, like a blanket-wrapped infant.  “Follow me,” she said to Alistair and the rest.  “Sigrun, if you could find Guaire...”

“I’ll tell him.”  That was one of the Wardens, a woman who was on the small side even for a dwarf.  “Come on, Nate, let’s keep an eye on those louts in the armor.”

The man in the dark leathers _had_ to be Nathaniel Howe; that nose could belong to no one else.  Alistair had heard that the oldest Howe son had gone into the Wardens, but it was decidedly odd to see the evidence with his own eyes.  Kathil was leading them down a side hall into what must have once been a reception room, but currently looked as though it had been used as a storeroom for some months.  Crates were piled high by the walls.  “We’re still getting things settled,” she said.  “I am _so_ glad to see you, all of you, you have no _idea_.”  

Leliana stepped forward, then paused.  “Dearest...is that—”

“Ah.”  Kathil glanced down at the child in her arms.  “Everyone, this is my daughter Cerys.”  She shifted the child so they could all see her face.  She was perhaps two months old.

There was an odd, twisting feeling in Alistair’s gut.  “How...”

“The usual way, Alistair.”  Her eyes narrowed with a familiar bladed humor.  “There’s other news.  We should probably sit down.”

But Leliana’s eyes were narrowed.  “This is why you were not at Redcliffe this winter, yes?  And why you have a number of angry Templars on your doorstep.”

“Among other reasons.  Gossip travels fast, and when it became known that the new Warden-Commander is both married and has a child—well, I believe the Chantry in Amaranthine is not best pleased.  This is only the opening volley.”

“Wait.   _Married?_ ”  Leliana’s brows were arched.  “Dearest, there are all _kinds_ of things you’re not telling us.”

The mage wrinkled her nose.  “I know, I know, I had hopes of being able to sit down and tell you about everything, but I wasn’t counting on you arriving at the same time as the Templars.  Please.”  She motioned to the chairs that were set next to what appeared to be a hastily-built (and probably mage-assisted) fire.  She took one of them, Zevran and Cullen taking up seats on either side of her.  

It occurred to Alistair that he didn’t even know which one of them she’d married.  “Isn’t that illegal?” he asked, wondering about mages and the possibility that she had married _both_ of them and everyone was suddenly _looking_ at him.  “Er.  Mages.  Marrying.”  He chose a chair altogether too quickly, and Rima pulled one over beside him.  Duncan wiggled out of her arms and went scampering off into the shadowed corners of the room.

“It is not illegal,” Zevran said.  From the look on his face, he was taking a rather large amount of pleasure in Alistair’s discomfort.  “Merely not customary, and there is very little about our Warden that is customary, yes?”

“Truth, that.”  He decided to drop it for the moment.  “So.  Is there any _other_ trouble that I should know about?”

Kathil glanced down at her daughter, then back at Alistair.  “A few things.  I’m going to have to talk to you about the possibility of having aid sent to the arling.  I am happy to sink what money I have into the rebuilding, but people can’t eat coin, and it’s not a matter of food being too dear to afford—there simply isn’t any to be had.  That’s what the banns are doing here.  Well, and eating us out of house and home.  The food stores at the Vigil fared better than those of the rest of the arling, but we’re still getting low.”

“We can work that out,” Alistair told her.  This was known, and one of the largest reasons he’d chosen to come to see the damage to the arling himself.  The letters from Warden-Commander Laurens that had reached Denerim after the roads had thawed enough for travel had been very clear on the fact that Amaranthine was in terrible shape.  “What else?”

“We need a new arl.”  Kathil’s mouth hardened.  “And it’s not going to be me.”

Alistair stared at her.  Was she _really_ —  “Why not?” he asked.  “I thought that my intention was perfectly clear in the proclamation that gave the arling to the Grey Wardens.”

“Even if it _weren’t_ against the law of the land for mages to hold positions of nobility in Ferelden—yes, that is _still_ on the books, Alistair—my status as a Grey Warden is currently my only defense against my daughter being taken by the Chantry.  If I’m arlessa, you can bet your ass that the Grand Cleric is going to use that to claim that I’m acting as a citizen of Ferelden, and thus should be subject to Chantry law.”  One of her hands, the one not cradling the baby on her lap, clenched on the arm of her chair.  Her knuckles had gone white.

“The _Chantry_ doesn’t make the laws in this country, Kathil,” he said.  “That’s the job of the Landsmeet and the crown.”

She looked at him with eyes gone cold.  “You may want to remind the Chantry of that.”  

Rima spoke, her voice soft yet perfectly pitched to cut across the murmurs that were beginning to rise in the room.  “It is different when it is your child, isn’t it?”

Kathil’s attention went to the Princess Consort.  Rima looked back at the Warden, utterly calm.  (And he knew never to trust that calm; when Rima was that still, there was always something going on under the surface.  Usually, whatever it was jumped out to bite Alastair later.)  There was a long, tense moment during which neither of them spoke.

Then Kathil inclined her head.  “As you say,” she said.  “I will not give my daughter to the Chantry.”  She unclenched her hand from the chair arm.

Rima nodded, as if satisfied.  Alistair took a long breath.  “I suppose you have someone in mind for the arldom.”

“Varel.”  Kathil smiled thinly.  “He knows the arldom, and more importantly he loves it.  His judgment is good, if his tenure as seneschal is anything to go by, and the fact that he got thrown in prison for opposing Rendon Howe.”

“And what does Varel think about this?”

“That it’s a terrible idea.  But he’ll be good at it, and he is very sympathetic to the Wardens.  And it doesn’t show favoritism to any of the banns’ families.”  She glanced at the door with a faint smile.  “I have enough trouble on my hands without that.”

True, and yet—

 _And yet._

He’d thought he could somehow make things up to her, a little.  If she hadn’t been a mage, she would have been heir to a bannorn at least; was it too much to think that she might get a little bit of her own back?  Prove that even though she was a mage, she was capable—be an _example_ —

But looking at her, he thought that maybe Warden-Commander Amell didn’t particularly _care_ about being an example.  And maybe it hadn’t been fair to expect her to be one.

(He was a King.  He wasn’t required to be fair, or so he was told.)

There was a pounding at the door, and Kathil shifted the baby in her arms and stood, an annoyed expression crossing her face.  “What _now_?” she called.

The muffled voice from the other door sounded slightly panicked.  “Commander, the dwarf—he’s gotten into a fight with one of the banns—

“Andraste’s little _apples._   Your Majesties, we’ll need to continue this later.”  She gave Alistair an apologetic look.  “I sometimes wish Oghren weren’t so good at what he does.  Cullen, Zevran, you’re both with me.”  The assassin and the Templar were both on their feet already, and Kathil made for the door with them on her heels.

Leliana glanced at Alistair.  “We should follow them,” she said, and there was an all-too-familiar light in her eyes.  “She might need some backup, yes?”

 _I think she has all the backup she could ever need,_ he almost said, then thought better of it.  “I think so,” he said.  “Besides.  I’ve missed Oghren.  Though I _haven’t_ missed the smell of his breath.”

“Or any number of other smells that emanate from him,” Leliana said.  “Come, your majesty.  We will go see what trouble he has started this time.”

They collected Duncan from a dusty corner, and traded down the hall towards not-so-distant sounds of a scuffle.  Rima was beside him, her expression unreadable, except for the tiny quirk at the corners of her mouth that might herald something like satisfaction.

He wondered what battle Rima had won this time…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many apologies for how long this chapter has taken. Gah, that was slow even for me. (I was traveling, and then I was sick, but that really is no excuse.) The good news is that I hope to resume posting every other week, at least for a while, as I’ve finished all but one of my other obligations for a bit.  
> Thank you to all who have stuck with me so far!


	5. Certain Dark Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW, and the fic as a whole has finally gone to an M rating.

_The dreamers slip into our world each night,_   
_  
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_thieves who reshape the world around them, steal_   
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_the shapes we have so painstakingly built._

 _Now, with our Golden City cracked,_   
_  
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_our anchor is cut free. Nothing we have_   
_  
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_built can stand. Nothing._

 _But the dreamers, the thieves, they come in,_   
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_and show us the way to their world._   
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_We follow. Take on their passions,_   
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_their sorrows, wait and watch at the Veil._

 _From the Canticle of Demons, stanza 3: of the mortal world_

* * *

 _Zevran:_

They were moving quickly towards the commotion in the great hall, only barely keeping from a flat-out run. "Just like old times, no?"

Kathil grimaced and shifted her grip on Cerys. The infant was making noises that suggested that she was enjoying their haste, high-pitched giggles. "I thought my days of rescuing people from Oghren were over."

Through the arched doorway, Oghren's distinctive bellow sounded. "You sodding  _bastard_ , come back here and say that! I'm gonna—I'm gonna  _kill_  you, and cut you up, and then DANCE on the  _PIECES_." He and Kathil burst into the hall a moment later, Cullen close on their heels and, if he was not mistaken, the royal couple not far behind.

Oghren was wielding a battleaxe, chasing around a terrified-looking Eddelbrek, and ranting. The human bann was bleeding from several deep cuts on his arms and one on his thigh, but that didn't seem to slow him down very much. He seemed to realize that keeping the timber posts between himself and Oghren was the only thing that slowed the dwarf down.

Oghren was very good at chopping living things into very small pieces, a fact that did not seem to escape Eddelbrek in the slightest. The dwarf, did, however, like to travel in straight lines. Dodging around things did not appear to occur to him often.

Or perhaps he truly was that drunk.

"Think you can take him down?" Kathil asked. "Without killing him, preferably?"

Zevran looked evaluatively at Oghren, and weighed his chances. The dwarf smacked into a support beam, bounced off with a clatter, then regained his balance and charged again. "Perhaps. If Cullen helps." Oghren was tricky to take down at the best of times, and in the years since the Blight the dwarf had become tougher, meaner, and drunker. And it was always a bit ticklish, to try not to kill someone who was trying to kill you.

Kathil looked irritated. "Not worth the risk. That's Frenzy he's got out there. Nasty weapon."

Cullen added, "Heard he calls it Branka."

"He  _would_." She shifted Cerys and freed an arm, murmuring a spell. A shimmering cage appeared around Oghren, and Zevran held his breath. That worked  _sometimes_ , after all—

The spell made a soft popping noise and vanished as Oghren barreled through it. "Andante's  _bloody underthings_. Dwarves. Try not to let him kill you, you two."

And that was as good as an order.

Keeping his blades in their sheaths for the moment, he stalked toward the dwarf, Cullen beside him. Another presence moved on his right side—out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alistair, angling toward them as they went to intercept Oghren.

Oghren ignored them, even as Zevran called his name. He barreled between Zevran and Cullen, and the two of them attempted to tackle him. They all went down in a pile, but briefly—Oghren grunted and surged to his feet, throwing them both off. Fortunately, he didn't seem to regard them as attackers.

Merely obstacles.

Zevran heard Kathil's voice snapping out a spell, and Eddelbrek froze as the same shimmering shield came up around him that Kathil had tried to cast on Oghren. She and Jowan were both very good at that spell; they used it to protect Cerys during battles. Within a couple of heartbeats Oghren was using his great axe to flail at the shield, the edge sparking and screaming as it hit and bounced away. The dwarf was not looking out behind him, and between Zevran Cullen, and Alistair they managed to get Frenzy away from him and the dwarf physically dragged away from the bann. Once they had Oghren down, Zevran sat on the dwarf's chest, glaring. Lorn plopped himself over Oghren's hips, with an air of  _I could do this all day._

Others had arrived in the room, and one of them was Anders, the mage who seemed to have such a grudge against Jowan. (Zevran had little doubt that it was  _entirely_  justified.) He crouched at Oghren's head, ignoring the shouting, and grabbed the dwarf's head in both hands.

The air briefly took on the tingling feel of magic, and all at once Oghren's body went slack. He was still awake, and his face was taking on a look of confused consternation. "What'd ya have to go do that for? I was just gettin' warmed  _up_!"

The shield around Eddelbrek dropped, and Petra was fussing over the bann as his men moved in to surround them. The mage was a good healer, Zevran had witnessed it for himself in the weeks she had been at the Vigil, and Eddelbrek was in competent hands. He turned his attention back to Oghren. "I fear you are in trouble, my friend."

"Because I have a sodding  _elf_  sitting on me!" Oghren tried to get up, and failed. "That son of a duster deserves to go down."

Kathil was there, looming over them—as much as someone who was shorter than Zevran could loom, that was. "Why?" she asked. Cerys was awake in her arms, grabbing at a stray braid that was falling perilously close to the infant's hands. "What could Eddelbrek possibly have done? The  _one_  relatively sane bann—"

The dwarf looked up at the mage, scowled, and looked away. "Heard him talking to one of the other banns, that human with all the skirts. Said it wouldn't be easy to get the Vigil away from the Wardens, since the Commander was the King's whore and an apostate into the bargain. But he thought they could do it, especially since the Wardens here don't have Weisshaupt's support."

"That's old gossip, and I've been called worse." But Kathil's eyes had gone to flint. "So you decided to teach him a lesson."

"Can you blame me? Well, and maybe I was a bit drunk."

"You're still drunk," Anders said. "I have no idea how you can hold that much alcohol, but the rejuvenation spell didn't take care of nearly all of it."

"'s a talent." Oghren grinned. "Gonna let me up now? The elf's ass is bony."

Kathil glanced over her shoulder. "Sigrun, Nathaniel. Escort Oghren to the cells. He needs some time to dry out, and I have to do some damage control. Oghren, I'll deal with you later."

"Yeah, yeah," the dwarf grumbled. "Won't be the first time you've thrown me under the sodding cart."

The mage clenched her jaw, but turned away. "Never on purpose, and not now," she muttered. "Just—get out of my sight."

Zevran got up, and held out a hand to Oghren. He hauled the dwarf to his feet. "I will try to calm her," he told Oghren in a low voice. "She is not in the most stable of frames of mind at the moment, yes?"

"Don't do me any favors, fancypants." Sigrun and Nathaniel each took one of Oghren's arms and started hauling him away. Zevran turned his attention to Kathil, who was making for the place in the hall where Eddelbrek sat, surrounded by guards.

Alistair was shaking his head. "I knew he'd gotten bad, but I hadn't known how bad."

Zevran slowed, and glanced over his shoulder at the retreating Wardens. Then he went to return to Kathil's side.

Eddelbrek was on his feet. "I demand that you punish your man," he said. His face was drawn and pale; Eddelbrek was not used to being chased around and bleeding, it seemed. "If you hadn't intervened, he might have killed me."

Kathil just looked at the man with that flat gaze that had unnerved so many men. Though the bann did not visibly flinch, his anger guttered like a candle in a draft. "He might have. Then again, if what he said is accurate, he did not act without reason. He will be disciplined, but the walls of the Vigil have ears."

The bann glanced at Alistair, who was standing with crossed arms, and swallowed. "You have to understand, I said nothing objectionable. Merely apprising Lady Liza of a few things she wasn't aware of."

"Repeating gossip, you mean." She raised her chin, her armor creaking softly. "In normal circumstances, I would believe his word over yours, but these aren't exactly normal circumstances. I'll deal with Oghren, but I would caution you to observe the courtesies when under my roof, my lord."

She was looking steadily at Eddelbrek, but behind the bann there was a slight movement in the doorway. Lady Liza stood there, and though there were signs of strain at the corners of her eyes, there was a slight smile on her lips.

It was too bad that his Grey Warden did not usually allow Zevran to ply his own version of diplomacy. There was one bann in the room that needed swift retirement, and it was not the sweating man in front of them. Lady Liza Packton's hands were clean, she made sure of it. Yet somehow her name always came up when dirty deeds at Vigil's Keep were discussed, from angry mobs on the doorstep to an assassination attempt on Laurens when he should have been concentrating on fighting the darkspawn that refused to go away like good little monsters.

In his experience, it was those who were always on the edges of everything that turned out to be the most dangerous.

Eddelbrek bowed his head. "I understand. I believe I will withdraw for the evening." He left, his guards falling in around him.

Kathil glanced over at the rest of them, standing in a loose crowd by the large firepit that was the centerpiece of the hall as much as the dragon skull mounted over the dais. She drew a long breath. "I need to go deal with Oghren," she said. "Maker's Breath, I did not need this today."

Petra was scrubbing her hands with a bloodstained cloth. "Warden-Commander, if I could have a word?" she asked. "I won't take much time."

The words were entirely neutral, but there was something about them, some subtle electricity in her tone that drew the ear. Kathil frowned. "I'll meet you in my office shortly. The rest of you..." She waved, her gesture encompassing the hall. "Make yourselves at home. We usually gather for supper on the first floor of the wing where all the Warden quarters are. Anyone will be able to show you there. But before I go—" She silently held Cerys out to Zevran. The babe was pursing her mouth as if she were deep in thought about something, a facial expression that usually presaged a demand to be fed. Zevran took their daughter, as always marveling at the solidity of her.

Kathil crossed the space between herself and Leliana in four long strides, and threw her arms around the bard. "I  _missed_  you," the mage said, her face buried in Leliana's shoulder. "You have no idea."

"Ah, but I do have some small idea, yes?" Leliana smiled, and in that smile there were a thousand unspoken questions. "Ah, dearest. I was so worried. Could you not have written? At least to Redcliffe?"

"We spent the winter in the Brecilian Forest. Not a lot of post out that way. And anything I might have written probably would have gotten intercepted." She breathed out, and her shoulders sagged. "I have to go take care of things. But we'll talk later."

"Go, go. Commander." Leliana's eyes were gentle, but there was some mischief in them. "I think there is much work for us all to do here. But we can talk about that after you have dealt with the immediate crisis."

Kathil nodded. "Tonight." She turned to Zevran, and there was a small smile on her lips, the scar twisting one corner of her mouth. "Walk with me to my office. Cullen, make sure that Oghren's secure, and check on the, ah, project." The  _project_  was the Joining cup; they would hold the Joining tomorrow morning, if all went well. Cullen nodded, understanding, and departed.

Zevran walked with Kathil towards her office. "I'm going to have to get you to help me with my cuirass. Cerys is going to want her supper soon. I swear, I'm going to switch back to robes. Getting in and out of my armor every time I need to feed Cerys is more trouble than it's worth."

"Only if you try to remember not to run into the middle of battles, my Warden. While Anders and Petra are good at what they do, together they do not quite equal one Wynne." He smiled, and in his arms Cerys shifted and made a noncommittal noise, as if she were deciding whether fussing was worth the effort. "Come, we will get your armor off, and then you have sweet Petra waiting in your office."

They found an unoccupied room—barely larger than a closet—and set Cerys down. Zevran unbuckled the straps of Kathil's dragonhide armor with deft, practiced hands. He had stripped armor from this woman many more times than he could remember by now, and there was always a moment, when the shoulder straps released...

 _Ah, there._

He slipped one hand through the open collar of the shirt she wore between her skin and the armor padding and found a familiar knotted muscle. The mage groaned and leaned into his hand, her body relaxing for a moment. She rested her chin on his shoulder as he lowered the cuirass to the ground with his other hand.

"Lady Liza," she said, pitching her voice low. "Make it look good, Zev. I don't care what you do as long as she is no longer a problem."

His eyebrows shot up. Was she truly—? But she was. "It must wait until she travels back to her estate," he said, his voice pitched to match hers. "But I know how it will go."

"Good." She turned her face into his neck, and he felt her cool lips moving against his skin. "Take whatever, and whoever, you need."

"I will. And then there is the matter of payment. For no Crow takes a contract without the promise of reward, yes?"

She chuckled. "I know." Her teeth grazed his neck. "Return to me successful, and I will reward you lavishly. For  _days_. Adequate?"

"Mmmm. Perhaps." He shifted, and trailed the fingers of one hand along her jaw. "I could ask for something special, no? Something we have not enjoyed since the summer."

He was well-practiced at reading her body, the shifts and currents of tension. He read interest and apprehension twined together; she had interpreted his words correctly. "Cullen and I are—"

"Both afraid to make a move for fear of being rejected," he said, interrupting her. "It is long past time for the pair of you to get over it, no? What is between you is plain to see."

The breath went out of her all at once. "I've been waiting for him to make the first move."

"And he waits for you, out of respect." Zevran shook his head and brushed his lips against her braided hair. "So much waiting. But while you are waiting, the time is slipping by, and you are both becoming entrenched, so to speak."

"I know." On the floor, Cerys stretched and began to fuss. Kathil kissed his neck once more and began stripping off the rest of her armor, revealing the soft shirt and trousers she habitually wore beneath. She tossed it all in a pile—gloves, vambraces, greaves, padding, and all the rest. "Take the armor back to our room for me?" she asked. "Just put it on the floor, I'll stand it when I get back." She slipped into her weapon harness; Spellweaver glittered sullenly where hilt met sheath.

"Of course." He picked up the armor, and she gathered up the infant. "I hope your meeting with Petra goes well."

She quirked her mouth without comment, kissed him again, and left. Zevran departed as well, thinking about one Lady Liza Packton, and how best to end her life without undue suspicion coming upon him and his.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

She settled down behind her desk, in the chair that she kept on meaning to have changed out. It had been Laurens', and it was a bit too large for her. The hard wooden edge of the seat dug into the backs of her knees. Across from her, Petra perched in one of the guest chairs.

Kathil rearranged her clothing, and Cerys stopped fussing and latched on. There was a familiar rush of sensation through her breast. "You had something you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked Petra.

The other mage nodded. "I'm going back to the Tower, and taking Guaire," she said.

Kathil eyed her. "You say that like there's a catch."

"There is." Petra sighed and straightened her shoulders. "We'll give you two years, then we'll be back at Vigil's Keep, whether or not there's a new First Enchanter to take over. Both of us want to be Wardens, Kathil. And I want to see more of the world than just the Tower."

Two years.  _More time than I thought I might have._  "We'll work something out," she said, and tried to make sure her gratitude was audible in her voice. "Thank you."

"I don't think Greagoir would have annulled the Circle over not having a First Enchanter," Petra said, pursing her lips. "But I have to admit, not having the ability to do the Harrowing is such an  _interesting_ problem, isn't it?"

Kathil closed her eyes briefly, trying not to sag in relief. "It is. I'm not terribly surprised that Guaire agreed to go back with you, either."

"Agreed? He was the one who was trying to talk me into it." She brushed her hand over her hair. "Said that we had a responsibility to see our previous obligations through before we took on new ones. He does do his best to keep me honest. Anyway, you'll keep Kinnon and the rest. And Anders, Maker help you."

"He's getting along. Mostly."

"Except for the fact that he and Jowan keep trying to kill each other." Petra grinned, a bit of savage humor lighting her face. "I don't envy you the two of them."

"I'd tell you to take one or the other back with you, but you can't keep Anders in the Tower, and I think trying to take Jowan back would end rather badly." Kathil grimaced, and then shifted Cerys to her other breast. "They'll settle down eventually."

"If they don't, they might take the Vigil down around your ears," Petra said. "Guaire and I were planning to leave tomorrow morning, since the weather looks like it's going to hold for a few days."

Kathil nodded. "Safe travels to you, then. First Enchanter." She smiled at Petra. She had never been friends with this mage, but neither had they been enemies. They could work together.

Petra smiled back, and took her leave. Kathil finished feeding Cerys in silence. As usual, the baby fell asleep just after the meal, with one small hand curled around Kathil's thumb. "Love you, little one," she murmured.

That was one thing settled, at least. And with any luck, she would be able to talk Alistair into confirming Varel as Arl of Amaranthine. She was dancing on thin ice there, she knew, but it was the only reasonable solution. She had no good candidates among the Wardens for the arling; the closest she could get was Nathaniel Howe, and if she thought  _Varel_  was a controversial candidate...

She quite purposely did not think very hard about the request she had made of Zevran a little bit earlier. It was made, and knowing her assassin it was as good as done. Though what he had asked for in return—

 _He is right, and you know it._

She rose, and went to find a sling to put Cerys in. Her next task was one that she did not look forward to in the slightest.

A little while later, she had found Cullen and Sigrun, and headed across the inner ward towards the cells. "That's strange," Sigrun said, stopping and cocking her head.

Kathil pulled up and followed Sigrun's gaze. Huddled against the stone of the ward wall was a small woman wrapped in a tattered blanket, a begging bowl sitting in front of her. "We have a few beggars," Kathil said. "She looks like she's blind."

" _Inside_  the inner ward, though?" Sigrun shook her head. "The guards don't usually let people inside who don't actually have business in here."

The beggar lifted her head as if she'd heard them from all the way across the ward, her tangled hair shadowing her face. Then she smiled.

A moment later, she was gone.

"That was odd," Cullen said. "Did she just  _vanish_?"

Sigrun was frowning. "You should talk to the guards about keeping their eyes open," she said, glancing at Kathil. "It's probably nothing, but better to be sure."

"I was going to talk to Maverlies about the Templars, anyway," she said. "I'll ask her to remind the watch to be more vigilant."

Cullen hauled open the door to the basement, and peered inside. He nodded to Kathil, then started down the stairs. Kathil and Sigrun followed.

Oghren was sitting with his back to the wall of one of the cells. "Come to tell me off, eh?" he said, voice a low growl.

Kathil gritted her teeth, and straightened her back. Cullen and Sigrun were hanging back, evidently deciding to let Kathil handle this. The knot of the sling that Cerys slept in dug into her shoulder. "Oghren, you're going to have to talk to me. You obviously have a problem in general, and with me in specific. We might as well have it out."

The dwarf snorted. "Just because you disappear on us, and then come dancin' back in and boot out the commander we just sodding finished breaking in? Nah. Why would I have a sodding  _problem_?"

"You've never had a problem with my leadership before." Kathil stepped forward, and narrowed her eyes. "I got the impression after the Archdemon that you didn't need me any more. You were going to go settle down with Felsi, maybe join the king's guard."

"Yeah, well, the settling down didn't work out so well, did it? Felsi's not speaking to me, the nugget's a year old and I've seen him maybe twice." He glared at Kathil. "Just tell me what my punishment's going to be and get it over with."

 _The nugget? Is he—_  If anyone had told her that Oghren had a son, she hadn't remembered it.  _I suppose we dislike most in others what we hate about ourselves._  "I finished my obligations," she said, keeping her voice steady. "I killed the stupid dragon, broke the Blight. I was  _done_."

"Yeah? So why are you here?" He eyed her with more than a little suspicion.

She gave the dwarf a lopsided smile that she knew didn't reach her eyes. "You see anyone else stupid enough to take on being Warden-Commander?"

And it was more complicated than that, but it always was, wasn't it?

If Kathil had had a rough few years, Oghren had had it even rougher. He'd been bent and battered by life when she'd met him, and he was even more so now. "There's that," he said, grudgingly. He straightened, and looked her in the eye. "Look, didn't you ever think there might be people who sodding  _worried_  about you, girl? You just  _left_. Right in the middle of a  _wedding_. You missed the best part, too, that Cousland blighter got into the Dragon Piss and started howling about his sister. And then you show up again, and—" Words seemed to fail him. He motioned sharply with one hand at Kathil. "I mean, good on you for takin'  _responsibility._  But."

She glanced down at Cerys, who was sleeping unconcerned in her sling. "But. I know." She felt her shoulders tighten. "Oghren...where  _is_  Felsi?"

"Rainesfere. Last I heard, at least. She moves around some."

She eyed him. "Think she would consider moving to Amaranthine, once rebuilding starts? Sure to be lots of work."

Oghren pulled on one of the filthy braids in his beard. "She told me that she'd go back to Orzammar before she'd live anywhere near me. Still not sure how serious I should take that." Though by the scowl on his face, he took it very seriously indeed. "You know me and women. The Commander—Laurens, not you—was going to help me write letters to the nugget."

It was generally safe to assume that Oghren deserved whatever he got; it was also safe to assume that he had too much stone-balled warrior pride to apologize to anyone about anything. Including someone who had once loved him enough to marry him.

 _Time shits on us all, my friend._

She took a sharp breath. "So. Your punishment, Oghren, is that you are going to go to Rainesfere, find Felsi, and apologize. You're going to give her some sovereigns—docked from your stipend—and tell her that if she wants to make her way to the Vigil, I'll make sure she's taken care of when she gets here."

Oghren glared at her. Kathil glared back.

They were warriors, the pair of them, and Felsi was one too, though of a different kind. With Oghren, the fight came first, it always had. "Think of it as taking  _responsibility_ ," she said. "In your phrasing."

He snorted and relaxed, in that abrupt way that he'd always had of deciding that the fight was over and it was time to be friends again. "Yeah, well. Suppose you expect me to be on my way tonight?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "I have to find someone willing to go with you."

"I don't need a nanny," the dwarf grumbled, the dark clouds gathering in his expression once more.

She raised an eyebrow. "No, but the towns you stop in might."

Oghren laughed, then got to his feet. "You're sodding right, girl! Rainesfere, lock up your ale and your daughters!"

"You get to stay here tonight," Kathil said. "I've got enough problems without the banns coming squeaking to me about you roaming the halls. Tomorrow morning, you get packed up to leave." She turned towards the door, and saw Cullen and Sigrun both looking at her. Sigrun looked troubled; Cullen looked skeptical. "Petra and Guaire will go with him as far as the Imperial Highway," she said.

Sigrun cocked her head. "Petra is leaving?"

Cullen said, "I guessed as much, from something Guaire said to me last night." He cast a glance back at Oghren, and there was still trouble in the way his jaw firmed. "Let's get back into the Keep proper."

She'd wondered, a little, how Cullen would react when the Chantry began to reach for their daughter in that gasping way it had. Now she had her answer: with that solidity that went beyond stubbornness that was so characteristic of who he was.

( _No fewer than two around Cerys at any time,_  he'd said, his eyes gone to flint.  _At least one non-mage. If they see the opportunity, they will try to take her by force._  And she believed him; had no reason not to.)

She only hoped that his decisions would not cost him so  _very_  much, when all was figured.

* * *

 _Leliana:_

It was such a  _large_  fortress, and pleasant in a rough-shouldered, heavy-beamed way. The Alamarri had built few things, but what they had constructed they had intended to last the ages.

And oh, there were such  _surprises_  within.

Such as the baby that was currently being passed around the Wardens, mumbling around the fist she had stuffed in her mouth, unfocused eyes dreamy. Such as the way that Zevran and Cullen both kept half an eye on the infant, another half on the door. (The Templars were still resident, after all.)

Such as Kathil herself, bone-weary but more sharply cheerful, more  _alive_ , than she had been since the early days of the Blight. She was embroiled in a discussion with Alistair, trying to convince him that he really did need to name Varel Arl of Amaranthine. Rima sat next to Alistair, outwardly calm, but Leliana had witnessed the woman's maneuvering earlier. The Queen could find a way through the narrowest of openings, and what she truly wanted was a Circle of Magi that was not under Chantry control—and preferably heavily beholden to the crown.

There were other surprises such as Nathaniel Howe (who sat across the table from them, looking nearly at ease even in this company), a tall man who called himself Justice and appeared to only be alive in the most  _technical_  of senses, and a woman who was a member of the Legion of the Dead as well as a Grey Warden. Leliana wanted to spend some time talking to Sigrun, as information about the Legion was hard to come by on the surface, and even in Orzammar people did not like to talk much about them. How did one join? Did they attend their own funerals? Who funded the Legion, gave it arms and armor? Did they have their own heroes, their own stories? They must, surely.

Far down the table from Leliana, Jowan avoided looking at her, instead involving himself in conversation with one of the other Wardens. Beside her, Murena picked at her food, casting sidelong glances at the baby that Leliana held. "Eat, little one," Leliana told her, dropping into Tevinter. "Do not just push it around." One of the girl's worst habits was the hoarding of food; Leliana had needed to have sharp words with Murena just before they made the crossing into Ferelden, after discovering the half-rotted remains of several meals at the bottom of the girl's pack.

She was not far enough yet from the streets of Minrathous to believe that there would be enough food tomorrow, and the day after that. In her world, one always had to make food last as long as possible.

Murena poked a whitish lump with her spoon. "What is this?"

"Turnips, and before you ask they are not poisonous, no matter how they taste." She leaned over and ruffled the girl's hair. Murena ducked, but only halfheartedly. "Remember what I said about being polite?"

"," Murena said, running the words together in a mumble. She frowned at her turnips. "Eating this is part of courtesy?"

"As is speaking in a language those around you can understand," she said, switching back to Fereldan. Nathaniel Howe was looking at them with curiosity written on his face. "Murena is not entirely comfortable in the Fereldan language yet," she said to him.

He twitched his mouth. "I don't like turnips either," he said to Murena in heavily accented Tevinter. "I used to slip them to the dogs."

The girl's reaction to hearing someone here speak one of her native languages was remarkable. She brightened, sitting upright, and then blushed and ducked her head, muttering incomprehensibly. "Murena is still finding her feet," Leliana told Nathaniel. "Where did you learn Tevinter? It's not much spoken in this country."

"I squired in the Free Marches, and Tevinter is one of the languages of the land there." He gave Murena a glance that seemed more sympathetic than amused. "I take it your apprentice is from Tevinter itself?"

"I lived a' Minrathous," Murena said, this time speaking clearly, though slipping a bit into cant.

"And what do you think of Ferelden?" Nathaniel asked.

Murena looked around her, her sharp face considering. "S' _cold_. But people are nice to me." She smiled, briefly showing her crooked teeth. "I like all the dogs."

"I think that's all that's required to enjoy living here." He shifted his attention to Leliana. "Are you planning to stay long, or will you leave when the King and Queen do?"

"Oh, I will stay for the moment." She glanced at Kathil, who was gesturing sharply in the general direction of the great hall of the Vigil. "If nothing else, life around your commander is always interesting."

"Oghren has mentioned as much." He glanced at Kathil, and Leliana remembered that the mage had killed this man's father. It had been a death richly deserved, but she doubted that Nathaniel was ever entirely at ease around Kathil. He opened his mouth to continue, but Kathil abruptly stood, and the room fell raggedly into silence as all eyes went to her.

"It's settled," she said, raising her voice to carry through the room. "Varel will be named arl by Alistair tomorrow. I will continue as Warden-Commander. We have a difficult task ahead of us, and it will be made easier when the leadership of the arling is clear. Not that much easier, but any little thing that might help, I'll take." Her gaze swept the room, considering each of the assembled Wardens for a moment. "And just so everyone knows, the Templars who showed up this afternoon are guests. Barely tolerated ones, at that. Treat them with respect, but keep your distance." She glanced at Jowan, and there was a whole silent conversation in the glance that passed between them.

The maleficar inclined his head in response, but kept his silence.

Kathil leaned over and spoke to Cullen in a low voice. Leliana ruffled Murena's hair again. "Stay here. I will be back shortly." Then she got to her feet, catching Kathil's eye as she did so. The mage straightened and then rounded the table, coming over to Leliana. "You and I should speak, yes?"

"We should." Leliana saw her mouth quirk, and then the glance she gave to her daughter, who had just been passed back to Zevran by the tall blond mage who seemed so bent on charming everyone around him. "This way."

There was a small sitting room just down from the room the Wardens were using as a communal dining room. It was apparently currently being used as a place to store arms and armor that were in need of repair; Leliana moved an arm-guard with a large crease right down the middle and a chainmail shirt with a number of rings broken or twisted far out of place off of a chair so she could sit down. The room smelled of metal and oil, with a faint overlay of the very familiar scent of sweat-soaked armor padding.

It smelled like the night before a battle.

Kathil had done the same thing, shifting a breastplate and some bloodstained padding off of her own chair. "We're still at sixes and sevens here," she said. "There never seems to be enough time to get even this wing of the keep in order, much less the rest of it."

"Usually, the seneschal would have a castellan who would oversee such domestic arrangements," Leliana said. "Is there no such person here?"

The mage frowned, her scar twisting the corner of her mouth. "Come to think of it, Varel did mention that his castellan died during the siege this winter. We've been a bit busy trying to keep ourselves from killing the banns, but I'll talk to him about it. Garavel is going to be made seneschal once Varel is confirmed as arl. Garavel has a lot of battle experience, but it'll be a while before he's as good at his job as Varel is." She sighed a little, and glanced around. "The same could be said for many of the rest of us."

"You seem to be doing well," Leliana said. "It was an eventful winter, for all of us."

"And we're going to have to sit down with a bottle of wine one of these evenings and tell each other about it." Kathil regarded Leliana was that intent gaze that made many people so very uncomfortable. "But unless I miss my guess, you have something you want to talk to me about that's more politics and less catching up."

Leliana shifted, and spread one hand out on her knee. "The first is that the Imperial magister who ordered the  _jeu_  at the masque is dead. It was...not as clean a game as I would have liked to have played. The magister had a bard in his household who knows I was there that night. I took steps to neutralize him, but there may yet be consequences."

"That's good news, mostly. Any consequences, well, we'll deal with those when they wash up on our shores. And the other?"

"This." Leliana's hands went to her neck, and found the chain that hung there. She pulled the necklace over her head and handed it to Kathil: "I was given this by a woman in Minrathous who requested that I take it to the Fereldan Grey Wardens, since the original owner was once the Fereldan Warden-Commander."

Kathil turned over the pendant in her hand, the scratched and battered pendant. "This is a Warden's Oath. And the motto is in Orlesian...Lei, who did this belong to?"

Leliana held the mage's gaze with her own. "I believe you know who."

"Duncan." The breath went out of her all at once, and she slumped back in her chair, folding her hand around the Oath. Then she gave Leliana a sharp look. "Who in Minrathous had it—and why?"

"As for that...your Duncan, he was a man who would bend the rules when it suited him, yes? There was a woman, a Circle mage, that he helped convey to freedom in Tevinter. The Oath was given to her as a token of safe passage, and the Wardens helped her get across the Waking Sea and supported her as she established herself in Minrathous.." Leliana smiled. "From what I was able to glean, the mage was pregnant when she made the journey. Her daughter was born in Tevinter."

"Duncan was the father?"

"So Amity said."

And in the silence between them then hung everything that Leliana could not say about who Amity was and who she had been to Leliana, how her absence was an unexpected and unwelcome ache. How the woman had worked her way into Leliana's cracked heart, and found herself a place among the ruins, and had even begun to undo the damage that Marjolaine had done. The gulf of the winter stretched between herself and this mage, the miles and months they had traveled apart placing them at a distance that it was going to take some time to cross.

They had time. Leliana had faith in that much, at least.

She watched her friend run her thumb along the length of the vial in her hand, and hoped that it would not take so  _very_  much time.

* * *

 _Cullen:_

The funny thing about the mixture of darkspawn blood and lyrium that would go into the Joining cup tomorrow morning was that it looked exactly like what it was—bubbling, liquid death.

 _Smells like it, too._

He stirred it desultorily. He wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to be checking on, but it hadn't burst into flame, it hadn't separated out into its component liquids, and it smelled genuinely evil.

And familiar. He remembered his own Joining, almost two years ago, how even the smell of the cup had made the small hairs on the back of his neck raise and his gorge attempt to head for the hills. He wouldn't stand at tomorrow's Joining; that would be Kathil and Sigrun, and possibly Alistair in some acknowledgement that the King was still a Warden in the way that perhaps mattered most.

Not how he would live, but how he would die.

Cullen added some wood to the hearth fire, used the poker to rearrange the coals. He was delaying, he knew, lingering in the mage lab when everyone else had retired for the evening. He should head to his room. Try to get some sleep. There was the Joining early tomorrow morning, and then an audience with the banns that might turn ugly—particularly if the Templars still in residence decided to show up in force. The next day, they were to go to the city of Amaranthine, to see with their own eyes the destruction that had been wrought there.

All the while trying to ignore the looming threats, the clouds gathering on the horizon. Cullen shook his head and straightened, then replaced the poker in the rack next to the hearth. He'd collect Fiann from the kennels and head to his room.

He turned towards the door, and was brought up short. Kathil was there, leaning on the doorframe, exactly as if she had been there all along. (And she might have been; she was in her stocking feet, and Maker knew she had ways of traveling from one place to another unseen.) "I was just checking on the mixture," he said, then stopped.

She didn't move from where she was. "I thought you would be spending the evening with Guaire, since he's leaving tomorrow."

"Talked with him a bit this afternoon. He's promised to write." He gestured at the pot bubbling over the fire. "Seems to be almost ready."

She dipped her chin in acknowledgement, and he remembered another Joining, months ago; standing beside Jowan's prone form. "Come spar with me?" she asked, then chewed on the inside of her cheek briefly, an old nervous gesture. "I need the exercise."

He eyed her. "Where's Cerys?"

"Zev has her. He's playing cards with Alistair and Leliana and—Sigrun, I think. Or maybe Anders. He wasn't specific. Anyway, she's had her evening meal. She'll sleep for a while, and I told Zev I'd be in the salle." She rested her hand on Spellweaver's hilt. The mageblade sparked briefly and then settled. "I'm  _very_  tired of practicing against pells."

While she was recovering from giving birth, she'd switched back to practicing against trees and pells, just enough activity to remind her body of its training. He'd been surprised that she hadn't taken up the circle again when they'd gotten to the Vigil. "Sure you're ready?"

She twisted the corner of her mouth. "My hips are never going to be the same, but the rest of me needs to get with the sodding program. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing battle again sooner rather than later." She shifted her balance, pushing away from the doorframe. "So, are you coming?"

Cullen relented. "Lead the way."

They went down the stairs to the salle. The salle itself was enclosed, but great doors at one side led out to the practice yard. The room was larger than the Tower's salle, with five rings instead of three, and benches stacked to one side that could be set up for lectures.

It was late enough at night that they were alone, the practice weapons racked neatly and shadows lingering beyond the door. Kathil flicked her fingers, and three bright magelights flew up to hang in the rafters. They shed an unwavering light, and Cullen was reminded of the Tower. The salle there had been lit by magelights too, as was much of the Tower proper. (Candles and books were a bad combination.)

Kathil went to the edge of the ring in the center of the room, her footsteps echoing. The wooden floor creaked gently beneath her feet. She pulled Spellweaver from its sheath, then unbuckled the sword belt from her waist and laid it and the sheath aside. She pulled off her socks and tossed them next to the sheath. "Are you coming?"

He hadn't even realized that he'd stopped to watch her. "One moment."

"I think I'll get Wade to make you a blade," she said, looking critically at the steel in his hand as he hefted his shield, examining the straps that held it to his arm.. "It's time both you and Zev had nicer weapons, and Wade is one of the best."

"I like this one," he said, keeping his voice mild as he came to the edge of the circle opposite her. "It's comfortable."

"Mmm. Seems you could get a new one that's just as comfortable, and more enchantable." They both stepped over the line into the ring. "Well. Let's do this, Cullen."

They raised their weapons, and began.

It had been a long time since he had sparred with Kathil. There were some things that didn't change. She still had that little hitch in her stride that marred her grace; she still held her right side more strongly than her scarred left. They circled each other, evaluating, getting comfortable with the space and the footing. Neither of them were armored.

As one, they moved.

They came together with a clash of metal, Spellweaver sparking and spitting. Kathil disengaged quickly. In a contest of sheer strength, he would win, and when their swords were locked together Cullen had the advantage. Kathil's advantage was all in swiftness, in misdirection. Mindful of that, he did not chase her when she retreated, simply waited for her to come at him again.

They kept on like that for long minutes, until both of them were damp with sweat. Kathil was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. She came in again, and he made to deflect her with his shield—and heard her pained grunt as his shield caught her on her injured shoulder and she stumbled away.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Fine." There was a tingle in the air, the icy smell of magic gathering, the feel of the Veil bending—

He growled and raised his shield. "Hey, you get out the magic, I get out the cleansing."

Kathil snorted, and then she was abruptly  _close_ , under his shield and inside of his guard. A moment later the length of her body was pressed against him. "Are you  _very_  certain of that?" she asked, her mouth at his ear.

And it had suddenly stopped being a sparring match and become something else  _entirely_.

She vanished again, leaving him nearly gasping with her absence. He heard her footstep behind him and whirled.

They clashed and parted, body striving against body, blade against blade. He heard her chuckle, a little muffled, and he sidestepped and turned his shield edge on to meet her next blow. Spellweaver nearly shrieked against the metal of his shield, and he grinned. Kathil's eyes narrowed.

A moment later, she'd folded her knees and he overbalanced, staggering as she hit the ground and rolled away. He recovered and turned, and she was slow to recover. Too slow—his shield arm shot out and grabbed her off hand, wrapping around her wrist and yanking her in under his guard. His mouth was hard on hers, and Kathil returned the kiss with similar force.

Distantly, he heard a clatter as her blade fell to the floor. Her hand fastened in the cloth of his shirt, and she broke the kiss and shifted her weight backwards.

She used her leverage to yank him forward and off balance once more, and as he stepped forward to catch himself, she put one of her legs between his, and twisted. He hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. A heartbeat later she was atop him, pinning him down, her hand at the base of his throat.

Her pupils were wide, and strange things moved in their depths.

Cullen let go of his blade.

Then they were kissing again, and this thing between them was something frantic, need beating at both of them with hard wings.  _I had almost forgotten—_

He pulled his arm free of the shield. Kathil was straddling his hips, and he knew that she could feel him hardening against her. He could say no, still. He could say  _stop_  and she would, and they would retreat back into silence, behind walls that were growing thicker and stronger by the day.

In that moment, Cullen realized that Kathil was waiting for him to pull away once again.

 _I am tired of denying who I am._

He fisted his hand in the front of her shirt and brought her down on him, claiming her mouth once more. The two of them were hard-edged, teeth and nails and hunger. A few minutes later, they both had their shirts off, and Cullen had one hand on Kathil's breast and the other on her hip. She locked her legs around his hips and rolled them so that Cullen was above her.

It was not a gesture of submission. Her gaze was so intent on his face that he felt stripped naked, bared before her. He looked back at her, not flinching. Acknowledging.

The flame between them guttered and flared, and her fingers dug into his shoulder. Then they were moving again, and she was teeth and elbows and a long, heavy braid that smacked his face when she surged to her knees. The magelights above them winked out one after another. Shadows claimed the salle, but Kathil's skin was limned with sparks like a cat's fur in the winter.

Somewhere, somehow, they had lost the rest of their clothes.

"I love you," he hissed against her neck, and they were bruising things, those words. But it was important to say them. To know what they were up against.

Her response was to silence him with her mouth and to guide him into her heat with one hand, into a wetness that rose up around him like a river in flood. He drowned—ah, he  _drowned_ —and they were driving together, wanting and voracious—skin and scar, her face contorted and the scar a deep slash down the side of her face— _I think I might be dying_ —

She arched her back and cried out, full-throated, and she clenched around him, her whole body a demand.  _More. Now._

 _Everything._

He buried himself deep inside of her and his release came from the base of his spine. His face was against her shoulder, teeth against scar, and for an eternity there was nothing at all.

Cullen came back to himself some time later with the realization that he might have bruised both of his knees, and there was definitely something sharp digging into his hip. He lifted his head—he was lying half-draped over Kathil, her skin flushed and every place they touched soaked and slippery with sweat and other fluids.

She started to speak, and then coughed, wincing. "Next time, I vote for a bed," she said, her voice hoarse. "I think I have splinters in my back."

He chuckled and laid his head down on the wooden floor. Their faces were so close that their noses were nearly touching. He could see only the curve of her cheek in the dim, her eyes black and fathomless. "You didn't complain at the time."

"True." They were still then for a time, their breathing slowly slowing, their heartbeats falling into their usual rhythms.

Cullen shifted, used his free hand to shove his shield—the thing digging into his hip—away from them. He returned that hand to her body, moved fingers over the place where her waist swelled out into her hip. Childbirth had changed her body, he noticed a little belatedly. There were more marks on her belly, the skin a little loose and soft still, and the bones of her hips themselves were wider now. Her breasts were heavier, a different shape than they had been.

Cerys had rearranged them all, he realized. But Kathil's body was still thin and bone-sharp, despite the changes in it, and what connected the two of them was still very much present despite the changes in both of them. Kathil breathed out, and moved so her forehead was set against Cullen's.

"I didn't think I would be lying on the floor of the Vigil's salle when I said this." Kathil's voice was rueful. "Can we stop being such a pair of sops now? I think we've been driving everyone mad."

" _Everyone_  meaning Zevran," he said. "I think so."

"Good." He felt her body relax against him, the long coil of tension that seemed to be a permanent resident in her spine loosening. "As much as I hate to think about moving, the longer I stay here the more my hips are going to hate me tomorrow."

He kissed the end of her nose, and she screwed up her face in a comical grimace. "Come on, then," he said, and sat up. They both got to their feet, and in the shadowed quiet of the salle they located their clothes. Cullen didn't remember exactly how his braes had managed to get themselves thrown onto the weapon racks, but he had his suspicions. And his shirt was never going to be the same.

He found that he didn't care in the slightest.

They picked up their weapons and their boots, and padded barefoot through the halls of Vigil's Keep. Tomorrow was the Joining, and after that—

Well, they would see, wouldn't they? They would see.

* * *

 _I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

— _Pablo Neruda_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter took forever, didn’t it? Rest assured that I’m continuing to work on this story. I spent some time writing a related story called “The Languages of the Needle”, about Celia Mac Tir, that you can find on my profile.
> 
> Happy Yule, everyone, and I hope you have a lovely holiday!


	6. The Mark of the Seeker

 

 _Mortals, you are the Second Children of a Maker  
_ _neglectful as a cuckoo.  We watched over you,  
_ _welcomed you in!  And now, when we burn  
_ _with your hungers, you decry us, name us_ demon _._

 _  
_ _Mortals, it is you who have changed us._ _  
_ _Mortals, we are the children of your sins,_ _  
_ _the sons and daughters of your virtues._ __

___You name us Hunger and Pride, Rage and Desire,_ _  
_ _Justice and Faith, Silence and Caution._ _  
_ _Those are not our names, not even our natures._ _  
_ _They are what we have eaten._ _  
_ _In the waters of the Fade ever-shifting, we become_ _  
_ _and become again!  But the mortal world_ _  
_ _is a chain unbroken, water freezing to ice,_ _  
_ _maddening us with desire for its unceasing_ I am. __

From the Canticle of Demons, stanza 2: of the mortal world

 _*****_

 _Alistair:_

“Stand behind them,” Kathil said to him.  “Try to catch them when they fall.”

“I think letting them fall over is traditional,” he pointed out.  The mage was carefully pouring foul liquid from an iron pot into the Joining cup.  It moved restlessly, seemingly on its own.  “I mean, they let _me_ fall over, and I think we let you collapse as well.”

“Yes, and I woke up with a headache that had nothing to do with the ritual and _everything_ to do with the fact that my head hit the ground when I passed out.”  She grimaced, and looked sidelong at him.  “Or was that a _ritual_ lump on the back of the head and double vision I had when I woke up?”

“Had to make sure your head was hard enough to withstand being a Grey Warden.”  He waggled his eyebrows at her.  “Or did you not notice that we both spent a lot of time being hit on the head during the war?”

“That was you.   _I_ mostly got stabbed.  Or on really good days, lifted into the air and gnawed on by ogres.”  She frowned into the Joining cup.  “Somehow, I remember this cup being bigger.”

“Good times, those.  Remember that first one?  In the Tower of Ishal?” he asked.

Kathil snorted.  “You screamed like a little girl.”

He poked her shoulder with one finger.  “So did _you_.”

“Granted.”  Kathil grinned, a little sly.  “I think I hear them coming.  Just try to catch them, all right?  If they live, I don’t want to spend any time fixing up their cracked skulls, and if they die...”  She shrugged one shoulder and turned away to fuss with the cup some more.  “Seems like it’s only right to have their last memory of this world include human contact.  It’s a lonely enough world, as it is.”

Any reply he might have made was forestalled by the arrival of Sigrun and six potential Wardens, walking into the great Hall of the Vigil with trepidation on every face.

Six times the cup was lifted, and Alistair did catch all six, watching for that moment that their eyes rolled up into their head, the moment when a candidate had one of two reactions—a brief seizure and then a collapse, or clutching at their throat and going into convulsions.

Five lived.  One—one of the Templars—did not.

“Better outcome than usual,” Kathil said, nudging Kinnon with the toe of her boot.  The mage let out a terrific snore.  Lorn was sniffing Marcus’s body, whining a little.  “I’m a little surprised that Keili lived.  She’s stronger than she seems.  Sigrun, could you help me with Marcus?”

“I’ll get his feet.  Just glad you let the King there catch them.”  She jerked her chin towards Anders as she stooped to grab the dead Templar’s ankles.  “That one there is tall as a building.  Say, is it true?  You and him?”  A glance at Alistair made it clear who she was talking about.

Kathil rolled her eyes.  “Why is everyone so interested?  That was _years_ ago.”

“Because the Queen doesn’t like you, and I figured that might be why.”

Alistair would have thought that the little dwarf was simply unaware that this might be a tender subject, but one look at her face disabused him of that notion.  Her light blue eyes were lit with amusement.  He said, “Rima and Kathil have a few long-running disagreements.”

Kathil put her arms around Marcus’s chest, under his armpits.  “Can I remind you both that we have a body to lay out and prepare for burial?  Come on, Sigrun.  I want to write a letter to send with Petra and Guaire, and they’re leaving with Oghren and Nathaniel at noon.”

“You’re sending the Howe with Oghren?” Alistair asked.

“Would you _please_ stop calling him _the Howe_ like you expect him to turn into a darkspawn?  He’s good at handling Oghren, I trust him _not_ to join in the drinking games, and he’s strong enough to drag Oghren out of sight after he passes out.”

“I am, too,” Sigrun pointed out.

“And you have a habit of egging Oghren on.”  Kathil gave Sigrun a sharp look.  “Besides.  I need at least one sane person in this madhouse who knows how to talk to Justice.  Because I surely do _not_.  Let’s go drop off this poor fellow, all right?  Lorn, keep an eye on our new Wardens for me, and come get me when they wake.”

Sigrun snorted and picked up the Templar’s feet.  Lorn settled down next to Kinnon—the Mabari all liked him, for some reason—and laid his head on his paws.  “You’re a good pup,” Alistair told him.

Lorn’s tail wagged once.  Of course I am.  He twitched an ear in Alistair’s direction.

“Your human, though.  Still not sure about her sometimes.”  Kathil was out of earshot by now, disappeared into the hallway.  “Well.  Suppose I should get back to Rima and Duncan, eh?  I think some paperwork’s followed me to the Vigil.”

He glanced over the prone, newly made Wardens once more, and started for one of the back doors of the hall.  A flicker of movement caught his eye, near the wall.  There was a person there—at first he thought a child, but then he blinked and he could see it was a small woman, probably human, wearing a filthy, ragged garment that he would have hesitated to call a dress.  She was walking with her hand on the wall, one hand groping out in front of her.  “Can I help you?” Alistair called.  Whoever this was, he didn’t think she belonged in here—maybe she was lost.  She looked like she was blind.  

Lorn raised his head and growled low in his chest, then surged to his feet.

The woman turned her face towards Alistair.  “Probably not,” she said, and smiled.  Then she broke into a run, and between one heartbeat and the next, she slipped behind a massive post and didn’t come out the other side.  

She was gone.

Lorn ran to where they had last seen her, sniffing the post and whining.  He reared up and put his front paws on the post, snuffling as high as he could reach.  Then he looked up and barked once, meaningfully.

Alistair followed the Mabari’s gaze upward, and saw that the post connected to a heavy beam that led to a series of small windows near the roofline.  There was a narrow catwalk all the way around the hall, and some of the shutters on those windows were ajar.

“She’s gone, boy,” he said, oddly grateful for the presence of the wardog.  At least the dog was convinced he wasn’t seeing things.  “Probably went out one of the windows and out to the roof.  I think I’ll take a walk outside.  Talk to Captain Maverlies about some of the construction going on.  Whoever that woman was, she showed herself deliberately.”

The Mabari settled down again as Alistair turned and headed towards the great doors.  He would wait and guard, set the set of his ears.

“This sort of thing never happens in Denerim,” Alistair muttered, but he was smiling as he went in search of Maverlies.

*****

 _Kathil:_

To all of their very great fortune, the confirmation of Varel as Arl of Amaranthine went smoothly.  Alistair made a speech—he had gotten very good at speeches in the last few years, she realized with some pride—and then Varel thanked the assembled banns and promised that he would do everything in his power to make sure they got through the next few difficult months together.  “There is aid for us coming from the other arlings,” he said.  “And King Alistair has promised me personally that there will be funds and supplies and men coming our way for the rebuilding of Amaranthine herself, and the port.”

After the brief ceremony, as Kathil turned to go check on the new Wardens, Alistair caught her eye.  “Can I talk to you?”

She nodded and stepped out into the corridor beyond the Vigil’s hall.  Zevran and Cullen both followed, more out of habit than anything else.  Kathil was carrying Cerys.  Today, the infant had a strange rash that spread across her cheeks—normal, according to one of the midwives resident in the outer ward.  It gave the baby a bit of a poxy look, and she kept on trying to scratch at it with her sharp little fingernails.

“I didn’t have a chance to mention it before, and it’s probably nothing, but—”  Alistair shook his head.  “There was someone in the hall, earlier.”  

After Alistair had described the incident (this woman had to have been in the hall during the Joining, which was bad enough as it was, but that _none_ of them had seen her was worrying) she shook her head.  “I saw someone matching that description in the inner ward yesterday—did you say that she looked like she was blind?”

“Let me guess,” Zevran said.  “She was very short, yes?  Sharp little nose, dark hair, very dirty hands?”

“Sounds right,” she said.  “Let me guess.  Old friend?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”  He glanced over his shoulder, and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.  “Her name is Ville, and the impression you had of her is not incorrect.  She was born blind.  Let me assure you that it does not hamper her effectiveness as a Crow in the slightest.  The  dirt on her hands covers a set of tattoos that serve the same purpose the ones on my face do, to identify her to those who have the eyes to see.”

“I would have thought sending them the head of a monster might have dissuaded them from any more attempts on our lives,” Kathil said.  

“And the Crows don’t strike me as a particularly stupid bunch of assassins,” Alistair said.  “Generally.”  He gave Zevran a meaningful look, which the elf ignored.  “She showed herself deliberately.  So, why?”

Zevran shifted his weight from foot to foot.  “Several possibilities.  One is that this is Ville’s way of requesting that I contact her.  She _is_ fond of little games.  Or she may be wishing to send all of us a message, of sorts—that the Crows know can reach out with their blades at any time.  This fortress was built to withstand armies, not assassins.”  His hands were straying close to the hilts of his visible daggers, a sure sign that he was much more disturbed than he was letting on.  “She may be here for me in particular, and wishes me to know she is coming.  Or she may be here for someone not one of us.”

“Any way to find out?” she asked.

“Find her.  Ask her.”  He shrugged.  “It will take time.”  He glanced at Kathil, and shook his head slightly.

Find this Ville, or eliminate Lady Liza.   _Choose one._  

“Does Ville have any habits we can exploit?” Cullen asked.  “It sounds like you knew her well.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow.  “She was my...mmm, mentor is not quite the word.  She protected me, taught me any number of lessons.  And no, she will give us no openings to use if she can help it.  If she is true to form, she will be traveling with a pair of young Crows who have the talent to stay hidden in plain sight.  They will not break cover even to save her life.  That is not their function—they are to observe, report, and do the very few tasks that it is necessary to have sight to accomplish.  But they will be easier to find than Ville will be.”

“I spoke to Maverlies already,” Alistair said.  “She said she’d keep an eye out, but this fortress is lousy with crevices and cracks.  It’s going to be hard to find her if she’s staying out of sight.”

Kathil drew a long breath.  “We’re leaving for Amaranthine this afternoon,” she said.  “If she’s on a mission, she’s had opportunity to kill any one of us and hasn’t yet.  Let’s wait and see what happens.  Zev, my request stands.”

He inclined his head towards her, and a smile played around the corners of his mouth.  

Alistair snorted.  “I don’t even want to know.  I really don’t.  Amaranthine it is, then.  I’ll tell my guards to get everything ready to go.”  

An idea occurred to Kathil, and she turned to Zevran.  “Describe Ville to Leliana.  If any of us is going to spot her before she wants to be spotted, Lei will be the one who manages it.   And that apprentice of hers spends a lot of time staring at people.  She might even have seen something.”

“I will.”  Zevran kissed her swiftly, and then Cullen, and then he was heading into the hall.  Alistair was looking bemused.  Fortunately, he didn’t say anything, only followed the assassin back towards the hall.

“If it’s not one thing...”  She sighed, and turned to Cullen.  “Zev has something he needs to do, and he’ll meet us in Amaranthine.  You’re officially in charge of security.”

“Who are we taking with us?” Cullen asked.

“The King and Queen and their whole guard, of course. and the Redcliffe soldiers are earmarked for amaranthine proper, so they’re going too.  Leliana and...Murena, that’s right.  You and me, Jowan, and Justice.  Sigrun is staying here to keep an eye on things, Nathaniel is going with Oghren.  The new Wardens are also staying here.”

“You just want to keep Jowan and Anders separate,” Cullen said.  He opened his arms to her, and she stepped into them.  Cerys, now cradled between their chests, burbled delightedly.  “Probably wise.”

“I suppose I can’t knock their heads together and tell them to _deal_ with it, eh?”  She looked down at their daughter.  Cerys grabbed for one of Kathil’s wind braids, and yanked it towards her mouth.  Kathil winced.  “Anders has good reason to hate Jowan.  But Jowan has proven himself useful, and we all have to tolerate things we don’t approve of in the name of killing darkspawn.”

“We do, at that.  And without him, we probably wouldn’t have Cerys.”  Cullen was looking down at the infant, and the smile that touched his lips made something warm coil in the pit of her belly.  

She rose up on her toes, shifting Cerys, and kissed that smile, those lips.  She was still sore from last night, easily the roughest session of lovemaking she’d indulged in since she’d gotten too unwieldy to be particularly vigorous in bed, and she did not regret it in the least.  Zevran had just smirked knowingly this morning as he picked splinters out of her shoulders.  

She could have mixed feelings about the whole thing later.  Right now, there was a part of her that felt replete for the first time since last summer.  Zevran was her stone, her quicksilver, her home and her soul; Cullen was the path she trod, the lodestone she looked to.

She had missed him, and _badly_.

They broke the kiss, and she breathed his scent in, a little altered without the edge of lyrium dust but still familiar.  “Do I even want to know what you’ve asked Zevran to do?” Cullen asked.

She inclined her head toward the hall.  “Later,” she said.  “When it’s done.  Let’s go get ready.  I think we get to ride in a carriage.  That’ll be different, at least.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “Ever ridden in a carriage?”  She shook her head.  “It’s a lot less pleasant than it sounds.  Not even quicker, since we’ll be held to the pace of the guards.  If we had more horses—”

“Sort of moot, since I can’t ride,” she pointed out.  

“I forget that things with hooves hate mages.”  His smile warmed his eyes.  “Well.  Let’s go see off Oghren, shall we?”

She blinked, realizing that there was something she’d left undone.  “Oh, _Maker_ , I forgot to get the sovereigns for Felsi!  Come on, I don’t want to talk to Mistress Woolsey without backup.”  She started towards the administrative wing, moving quickly.  “I swear, that woman has a glare that would put most dragons to shame.”

“Even the Archdemon?” Cullen said as he caught up with her, stretching his legs.

“No, but only barely.”  They rounded a corner and started up the stairs.  This was all starting to feel familiar, and this time in a good way.

She had Zevran and Cullen, Leliana and Jowan, and for the moment she even had Alistair and Oghren.  The question of the arling was settled, and the ranks of the Ferelden Wardens were swelling again.  Maybe she could do this, after all.

But up in her room, carefully hidden under the formal mage robes that she hadn’t worn since she arrived, was a Warden’s Oath that reminded her that the challenges of command didn’t end when the Order was re-established.  

She had barely known Duncan.  Alistair had known him as the father he craved, the leader he’d needed.  Kathil had traveled with the Warden-Commander for scarcely a fortnight; in that time, he had barely spoken to her, and she’d been too consumed with the shock of being outside of the Tower to ask too many questions.

Then had come Ostagar, and the world she’d just started to know had been erased and replaced with something far, far colder.

Kathil put it out of her mind and headed towards Woolsey’s office.  Those days were behind her.

She just hoped they would _stay_ there.

*****

 _Jowan:_

He surveyed the road with a kind of grim satisfaction.   _If nothing else, it’ll be good to be away from Anders for a bit._  He was tired, more than tired, of having to check his boots thoroughly in the morning, and his clothes.  There was a local herb called rashvine that when dried to a powder and introduced to fabric made wearing the affected clothing absolutely unbearable.  It even survived two or three washings, unless those washings were done in boiling water.

He’d found it in his socks and breeches more times than he cared to think about, lately.

Things with Anders had nearly come to blows a number of times, and though he knew it was starting to irritate everyone around him, it was as if Jowan and the healer couldn’t help it.   _Will the two of you at least **attempt** to be adults?_ Kathil had asked him about a week ago.  

He didn’t think Anders had told her about Jowan using him to get to the books on blood magic, or experimenting on one of the Tranquil.   _Not my finest hour, that._  Probably because if Anders told Kathil about that, it was a very short line of questioning that led from there directly to what had happened to Sati.

Jowan had a hunch that Kathil might not forgive _either_ of them, if she found out.  

The Warden-Commander was walking next to Leliana, the two of them deep in conversation.  Cerys was riding for the moment in the Carriage with Queen Rima and Prince Duncan and Leliana’s odd little apprentice Murena, the child who spoke in with a thick Tevinter accent and _stared_ at everyone so.  He wondered what had possessed the bard to take that particular child as an apprentice.  It was not as if there were not Fereldan children that needed training; why one from Tevinter?

The King was walking amongst his guards exactly as if he were one of them.  In fact, he was wearing the same kind of armor they were, though his sword was better than any of theirs. Better than Jowan had ever seen, except for Kathil’s Spellweaver; the sword, when drawn, glowed with lines of starlight, almost like veins of lyrium.  He didn’t dare ask where Alistair had gotten it, because he really didn’t want to know.  The King had referred to it once, casually, as a gift from Kathil, and Kathil apparently had ransacked all _kinds_ of places during the Blight.  It was beyond the usual mageish disregard for privacy and personal property, and it was something Jowan didn’t like to think about much.

But other than the sword, it was hard to tell on first glance that Alistair was the King of Ferelden.  That was, he assumed, deliberate.  Kathil was extremely easy to pick out, and that too was deliberate.   _I’m not exactly inconspicuous,_ she’d told him once.   _And I’m tougher than I look.  So I play that up.  It helps that if they can hit me, I can hit them._  She was wearing robes, instead of her habitual armor.  The robes, at least, were easier to rearrange so she could feed Cerys.

Justice was in the vanguard.  The non-Wardens kept their distance, not that the Fade spirit seemed to mind.  As they walked, they all cast glances at the edges of the road and the margin of the forest that surrounded them.  The road was still muddy, but getting more solid; they hadn’t needed to dig out the carriage even once, so far.  They were too large a group for a small bandit force to take.  At least, that was the theory.

Unfortunately for the theory, the reality was that there were _large_ groups of bandits in the arling.

Their first indication that something was wrong were a pair of sharp barks from Lorn and Fiann, who had ranged ahead of the rest of them.  The Mabari hurtled back towards them as men and women burst out from the undergrowth at the side of the road.

“ _Jowan—_ ”

That was Kathil.  They had done this so many times that it was reflexive to match his voice to hers, match the edges of their power.  The horses pulling the carriage screamed and then froze in mid-rear as a shimmering bubble of power surrounded them and the carriage.  Around them, swords were coming out of sheaths, Leliana was pulling her bow, and it was rapidly becoming clear that they were outnumbered.

 _So many of them.  There has to be a hundred, no, more! How—_

But there was no time for that, and Kathil was beginning to cast, Spellweaver naked in her hand, electricity coruscating over the metal.  He knew this spell, and knew _exactly_ how to help her even the odds.

He took a breath, becoming a still place in the world as chaos grew around him.   _Ignore it._  The Veil was there, already tattered, and it took so little to reach—and _pull_ —there!

 _And You are the spark of life that grows into a bonfire, the killing mercy of the flame!_

Around them, Kathil’s icestorm bloomed, winds howling in a circle just beyond the borders of their forces..  

Jowan’s flame followed the path that her storm set, lacing through it, adding destructive fury.   _This_ was why the games with the magelights, _this_ was why they trained mages to join their powers together.  Even if the Tower had forgotten.  

Even if it never knew.

 _And together we cry to you in the darkness—our enemies are as sheaves of wheat beneath the scythe, felled for Your glory!_

Kathil was grinning.  “Jowan, stay with the carriage, you’re support—Lei!  Cover Jowan!”

The bard sighted and released; her arrow sprouted from the throat of a bandit as she backed up to stand next to Jowan.  Alistair and his guards were engaging the bulk of the force that had managed to be within the borders of the storm when it was unleashed.  Cullen bashed away a bandit with his shield and came to join Kathil, falling in on her left side.  He said something to her and she shook her head, gesturing at Alistair, and Cullen gestured at her sharply.  She looked down and scowled, evidently remembering that she was unarmored and therefore _not_ a good candidate for engaging the enemy directly.

Jowan took a breath and tossed a spell into the midst of the largest clump of soldiers, listening for the telltale scream of a man infected with a spell that would eventually turn him into a flesh-based explosive.  Kathil was next to him now, Cullen at point before them.  “This is _stupid_ ,” Kathil grumbled.  She spat out a couple of words and sent a dart to tag one of the bandits.  The man yelped and turned towards them.  “They have to know who we are, who we’re traveling with.”

“Desperation,” Cullen said without turning around.  The man Kathil had darted reached him, and the Templar bashed him with his shield, sending the man flying.  Jowan finished the job with a tongue of flame from one hand.  “Kathil—”

“I see him.”  Her jaw had gone hard.  “Jowan.  Ward Alistair, _now_.”

The bandits were giving the King a wide berth, but a motion at one side of the battlefield called to mind the sway of ash trees before an autumn wind.  Something—someone—had arrived on the battlefield.  Jowan swore and reached for the first spell that came to mind, a ward against binding magics.  The ward sprang to life at Alistair’s feet.

Kathil was gone from Jowan’s side, and Cullen was gone as well.  Jowan blinked and looked around, only to see what Cullen had drawn her attention to originally.  It was a man wearing robes that were only slightly singed from the storm he had to have walked through—a mage, right enough.  No one Jowan knew, and that was a mercy.  

“Jowan, pay _attention_!”  That was Leliana’s voice.  “Stop daydreaming, and keep these men standing!”

“The mage—”

Leliana _laughed_.  “Let Kathil handle it, yes?”

And right enough, he could feel two spells being cast in quick succession, and the sickening feel of the cleansing in the same vicinity.  The apostate dropped like a poleaxed steer.   _She’s a mage killer—I didn’t know they even_ taught _those spells any more—_

Then everything was blood, and blades, and trying to keep everyone alive.

Jowan switched entirely to warding and healing spells, keeping only a bit in reserve so he could replenish the shield around the carriage.  Someone shoved a lyrium potion into his hands as his strength faltered and the storm that had been separating them from the rest of the bandits dropped.  The potion clawed at the back of his throat, but he shuddered and swallowed.  

The bandits regrouped slightly and began trying to attack the carriage.  It was then that things got genuinely dicey.

“Maker-forgotten _archers_ ,” he heard Kathil hiss.  She had an arrow in her thigh.  “Jowan, can you fireball them?”

He wiped sweat out his eyes.  “Not if you want this shield to stay up.”  He was using his staff to fire at the archers in the trees, which seemed to mostly have the effect of causing them to aim at him and Kathil.  

“Lovely.”  But she didn’t tell him to drop the shield.  They both had their backs to the carriage, pressed against the shield.  “Well, _shit_ —”

A group of bandits rounded the corner of the carriage.  They looked rather well-fed for bandits, Jowan noted absently as Kathil shoved past him, placing herself between Jowan and the armed men.  Lorn was next to her now, his head down and hackles raised, advancing on the bandits.  Where was—ah, there Cullen was, barreling in from the side, plowing into the middle of the group.  Fiann was with him, howling as she knocked a bandit off of his feet.  (And when had she gotten big enough to do _that_?)   Kathil had to be low on spellpower, Jowan realized as he saw her parry the apparent leader’s blade.  Between the storm and dealing with the apostate—all she was right now was a fighter.

Fortunately, right now what really was needed was extra swords.  Leliana pulled her daggers, going after the backs of those bandits unwise enough to expose them.   _Keep the shield up.  Keep them standing._  

There were still a _lot_ of bandits out there, and even with the potion Jowan’s reserves were dwindling.

The shield began to flicker.

 _Fine.  Let’s test this theory about being able to use_ all _of our abilities._   He drew his little knife, pulled up his sleeve, and slashed across his forearm.

 _A normal mage wouldn't have to resort to using his own blood when his power ran low.  A_ normal _mage would switch to handing out potions and hauling the wounded to safety to give himself a breather._

The shield steadied under his touch as he renewed the spell, the blood welling from his forearm sinking into his skin and disappearing as if the magic were consuming it.

 _Lucky for the Queen and the Prince that I’m not a_ normal _mage._

He hung grimly on to the shield, folding himself downward to make a smaller target.  Howls erupted nearby from the Mabari, close enough to leave them all feeling a little stunned at the very noise of it.  Justice came past, his face a mask of blood.  The Fade spirit didn’t bleed, as such; that had to all be the blood of others.  Justice’s blade swept a bandit’s head from his shoulders, and that head came bouncing and rolling toward Jowan, to stop, face up, by his knee.

The bandit’s bearded face looked startled.  Understandable, really.  The confusion of battle was beginning to calm, and looking around Jowan thought that they might have won.  He could hear Alistair barking orders, sending his guards out after the archers.

Jowan straightened, and looked around.  The battle _was_ winding down, but—where was Kathil, and Leliana?  He found Cullen, saw him hauling one pale-haired mage to her feet, but there was no pretty bard anywhere in sight.  Kathil limped determinedly towards Jowan, looking at the shielded carriage.

“Let go of the shield,” Kathil said to him as she neared.  “It’s safe now.”

He looked over his shoulder.  “The horses,” he pointed out, and he could hear a ragged intake of breath from her as she understood the problem.  Horses did not like magic in the _slightest_ , and they were perhaps the least sensible of all the Maker’s creatures.  The moment the shield was no longer holding them in place, they would panic and bolt.

He saw Kathil glance at his bleeding forearm.  “Can you control them?”

“Yes.  Though I don’t think—”

“Rather a pair of horses die than the three children in the carriage, and the Queen,” Kathil said.  “Do it.  Quickly, while nobody’s looking.”

He readied the blood leash with a few quick words, running them together in his haste, and with a gesture let go of the shield.

A moment later, it was done.  The horses came down from their half-rear and stood still, their only sign of life their white-rimmed, rolling eyes and their panicked breathing—

Then there was no longer even that.

Both of the horses fell in the traces, convulsing, and then stopped moving.

Kathil didn’t notice, yanking open the carriage door and peering inside.  “Where—ah, good, you’re all right.”

“Yes, what—”  The Queen’s voice stopped, and Jowan could well understand her confusion, her realization.  The shield made time seem to pause for those it was cast on, and to the Queen it probably seemed as if the battle had been done with in an eyeblink.  “Oh.”

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, a pair of slim arms handing Cerys to Kathil.  Then Murena emerged, surveying the battlefield, its stink and the moans rising from men who were not quite dead.  The Queen was muttering, “Oh.  Oh, Duncan, my sweet, don’t look, come back in here and we’ll close the door—Warden-Commander, get Alistair.”

The Tevinter child closed the door of the carriage as the first startled wails began from the Prince.  She muttered to herself in a language Jowan did not speak, and then bit her lip and set off across the battlefield, one hand on the little dagger she wore on her belt.  Kathil was holding Cerys, the look on her face reflecting a mental calculation that he was all too familiar with—who was going to live, who was probably going to die, how to save the most people for the least amount of effort.

The baby in her arms squirmed, protesting.  Cullen touched Kathil on her shoulder, and said, “Let me take her.”

“You have to go after the stragglers.”  Kathil frowned.  “And where has Leliana gotten to?”

“Let me get you the sling, at least, you’re going to need both hands free.”  Cullen opened the door of the carriage.  Kathil seemed to realize that she had a deathgrip on Cerys and gentled her hold.  A moment later, Cerys was settled and the two of them parted, Cullen towards where Alistair and Justice of all people stood talking, Alistair gesticulating and the Fade spirit standing still as stone.

Jowan’s gaze returned to the two dead horses; the driver was trying to untack them.  One of the horses had been a red mare, the other a sandy dun gelding.   _Poor things.  Poor, poor things.  You never had a chance._

The song of blood throbbed behind his eyes and beneath his breastbone, shaking him every time his heart pulsed in his chest.   _Bring it home.  Bring it in._  He shuddered with the effort to stanch the flow, to pull his awareness entirely back into his body.

After five heartbeats passed, he succeeded.

Back into his own body, sweating and wrung dry, shaking with reaction to the magic and to the blood loss.  He fumbled open the pouch he kept close and pulled out a small vial.  He hated this restorative.  It was worse than lyrium potions.  Still, down the hatch it went, leaving Jowan feeling for a moment like all of the hair on his body was standing on end, nausea trying to turn him inside out.

“Jowan.   _Jowan!_ ”  That was Kathil from across the clearing, and _that_ was Murena crouched next to her, staring down at a prone form in a set of familiar leathers.  

Leliana.

 _Maker, this is_ not _my day—_

 

*****

 

 _Cullen:_

All told, they had acquitted themselves well against a force that numbered just over four times their own.  They’d lost five people outright, and eight more were wounded but would patch together well enough to walk.  Two more were down with disabling injuries.

One of those was Leliana.

A bandit with a maul had come after her.  The bard was fast, and very good at staying out of the way, but sometimes the outcome of a battle turned on luck.  The maul had smashed into her right knee, shattering the kneecap and cracking the top part of the bone of her lower leg.  

She had other wounds, but the knee was by far the worst.  It could be repaired, Kathil was telling her.  “But I won’t lie to you.  It is going to hurt enough to make you wish we were taking it off instead, and there’s a decent chance it’ll never be quite the same.  I’m sorry, Lei.”

Leliana’s face was white as snow, dark circles standing out beneath her eyes.  “But I’ll walk?”

“You’ll dance.”  Kathil put her hand atop Leliana’s, and curled her fingers around the bard’s unresisting hand.  “I promise.”

Jowan was fussing with Leliana’s knee, frowning.  It was an ugly wound, a mess of meat with bits of bone showing.  “It’s going to take some time.  Maker’s Balls, I am not looking forward to this.”

“Just bind it for the moment.  We can start on the healing once we’ve rested a bit.”  Kathil shook herself a little, squeezed Leliana’s hand, and stood.  One hand came up to cup where Cerys’ head rested in the sling, as if to shield her from some sight.  “Murena.  Stay with Leliana.  Give her water if she’s thirsty.  Understand?”

Murena nodded, blonde curls bobbing.  She was still crouched next to the pack that they had propped Leliana up against.  “Yes, _massime_.”

“Dearest.”  That was Leliana, her lovely voice dulled with pain.  “Do me a favor?”  Kathil nodded, and Leliana beckoned her close.  The mage stooped, and Leliana spoke to her in a low voice for a moment.

Kathil straightened, and was that a smile she was trying to stifle?  “You’re terrible, Lei.  I hope you know this.”

“But of course.  Besides, it will be fun, no?  Surely you can’t begrudge me this _tiny_ thing.”

“Tiny thing, she says.”  Kathil waved her hand.  “Fine.  It’ll be done.”

“Good— _ah!_ ”  Jowan had moved her leg slightly, lifting it up a bit so he could get the bandage around it.  Leliana went even paler than she had been.

Cullen cleared his throat.  Kathil started, and then relaxed.  “How long have you been standing there?” she asked as she came over to him, sliding under his arm.  He pulled her close.  The scent of magic filled his nose, cold as the wind over a snowfield, and her body was trembling slightly.

“Long enough.  Alistair’s getting us organized to move.”  He took a long breath, steadying himself.  “We searched the dead.”

“You found something.”  She looked up at him, focusing sharply on his face.  She was spattered with blood and other less savory fluids.  They all were.

He nodded, and handed her a tattered piece of paper that he held.  “We found this on the leader.”

It was a scrap, nothing more, torn from what had to have been a letter or official paperwork of some sort.  There was half of a symbol on it, recognizable despite half being missing.  An open eye, surrounded by flames.

The mark of the Chantry Seekers.

“His pouch was full of money,” Cullen told her.  “Ferelden coin, mostly, some Orlesian.”

Kathil’s gaze had fixed on the paper.  “The mark of the Seekers, and there were too many bandits, too well armed and too well-fed.  This was no bandit attack.”

“They avoided Alistair,” Cullen added.  “He wasn’t the target.”

She looked over to where four of Alistair’s guard were pushing the carriage away from the dead horses.  Rima was standing beside it, holding a protesting Duncan, trying in vain to keep his eyes averted from the battlefield.  “I know,” Kathil said, her voice gone deceptively soft.  “They were going to keep me and Jowan occupied until the shield dropped.  Then they would have taken what they came for and retreated.”

Part of him didn’t want to believe it.  This was the _Chantry_.  It was made up of people who had the best intentions in the world, who wanted nothing more than a world at peace, a world where the Chant rang in every village, every town, every heart.  They didn’t pay bandits to try to kidnap babies.

 _Yet they also own the largest standing armies in Thedas, all told._

Perhaps, in some quarters, peace was a goal worth any cost.

He closed his hand around the scrap.  “Come on,” he said.  “We can help load Leliana into the supply wagon.”  Kathil nodded, and leaned into him briefly before pulling away.

Cullen followed her, and wondered if this was Andraste’s vision for the world.  Was this what she had fought for, bled for, burned for?  

Would she have approved?

She’d been a barbarian war leader.   _So, maybe._  But somehow he doubted it.  The Andraste in his mind was no longer the beautiful young woman all the statues depicted.  Instead, she was an older woman, her face lined, care worn into every movement.  She’d been a mother, all the stories said.   Cullen took a long breath, and went to help lift Leliana into the waiting wagon.  

He wished Zevran were here.

*****

 _Zevran:_

He traveled across the Feravel Plains on a messenger’s palfrey, cloak hood pulled low.  Somewhere on the road behind him was Lady Liza and her guards.  How far, Zevran wasn’t sure.  He started out early and rode late, stopping to make cold camps just off the road.  He saw few people, and those who did see him merely waved as he passed.  He suspected few of them even realized that he was an elf.

The horse he rode was one of the better ones that the Vigil kept, though only someone educated in horseflesh would have been able to see it under the layer of spring mud that covered the gelding.  The rolling hills were covered with just the finest mist of green, and the trees were putting out tentative, tender leaves.  

It had been some time since he had traveled like this; a bit in Antiva, after the Blight, and when he had first arrived in Ferelden with despair a poison in his veins.  It was not comfortable, but when one was racing a group of mounted people the only way to ensure that one arrived at the destination first was to sacrifice comfort for expediency.

Three days after he left Vigil’s Keep, he arrived at the farmhold of one Linnet Revan.  It was one of the largest farmholds in the arling, having subsumed several smaller ones after the Blight, and the quality of the wheat and cheeses it produced was known throughout northern Ferelden.  It was well-situated, bordered by a river on one side and cave-riddled hills on the other.

It was _also_ the home of a young man named Garrett Revan, who Lady Liza Packton was bedding.

Zevran had gone through Liza’s things when it had become obvious to him that she was the instigator of much of the political trouble that had marked the last year in Amaranthine.  She was a sentimental woman; she kept scrawled love notes in one of her saddlebags, secure in a wooden scrollbox.  Young Garrett was, evidently, barely literate, but his notes had painted a story for Zevran that was all too clear.

Linnet Revan did not approve of her son’s lover, from the multiple mentions of _me mam yellde a mi gain_.  Probably because the bann apparently had no intentions of marrying Garrett, despite the pleading he did in the notes.  Lady Liza was politically savvy, and even if she loved the boy it was likely that, if she married, it would be someone closer to her own station.  

Not that he thought that the bann would willingly share her power with anyone.  There were rumors that she had once tried to marry into the Howe family, but had been rebuffed and settled for becoming one of their major supporters.

All of this was interesting, but less relevant than the fact that Liza would stop by the farmhold on the way back to her own home, the fortress at the western edge of the arling.  And it was there that Zevran would wait.

He rode past the farmhold; if anyone remembered the palfrey and its rider passing, they would only remark him as likely being on his way to Highever.  The horse he turned into a field of similarly muddy beasts.  If he was very lucky, nobody would notice for a few days.  If he wasn’t, he might have to resort to stealing his own horse, or—more likely—walking to Amaranthine.  

The farmholds were beginning spring plowing and planting, and though cover was relatively scant, Zevran managed to stay out of sight.  He’d toyed with the idea of joining the planting, but on a farmhold in backwater Ferelden he would be obvious as a goldfinch.  Better to employ stealth, after all.

Garrett Revan was a strapping young man with a face that was just beyond handsome into beautiful, and who had a voice that would have been more at home on the stage than it was calling the cows in to be milked.  His mother was a tall, rawboned woman with an efficient manner and a gimlet gleam in her eye.  There were perhaps forty others on the farmhold, and in the three days that Zevran hid and watched, five more arrived in anticipation of seasonal work.  It was calving and lambing season as well as planting, and there seemed to be more work than there were hands.

He wondered, sometimes, if this was the sort of life he would have had, if his mother’s husband had survived.  A life spent breaking his back against the land, a life where a good calving season would mean the difference between wealth and penury.  It seemed distant as a star to him, a son of the deserts of Antiva.  

As well, he thought on Ville, and what her appearance in Vigil’s Keep might mean.   _This is how love ends, boy.  With someone dead._  (Orphene’s eyes glazing over, her blood soaking into the sawdust.  He remembered it so clearly, still.)  He had not lied; Ville had been kind to him.  She’d broken him in, taught him how to glory in touch, how to make men and women sigh and scream both.  He’d spent three weeks blindfolded, doing every chore in her apartments from cleaning floors to making her cry out in ecstasy with his tongue alone.

He’d had sex before he had gone to Ville’s bed, but it was Ville who taught him that lovemaking was an art form.

She’d never encouraged affection.  She was too pragmatic for that, and Zevran was not the first she had broken in and by no means would he be the last.  But they had liked each other, he thought.

Ville had warned him against Rinna.  She had been senior in their cell, though not the leader, and she had been the first to realize that he had fallen in love with a fellow Crow.  “You become soft, boy,” she’d said and poked him in the ribs with a hard finger.  “You can’t afford what she’ll do to you.”

He’d left Antiva, afterwards, and when he’d returned she was nowhere to be found.  There were rumors, of course.  Some said that there was a cell led by a blind Crow; other said that she had gone to work as the exclusive assassin for one of the pretenders to Antiva’s throne.

Assignment, or personal?  It was hard to say, and it had been something of a relief to know that he had higher priorities than finding out.  After Taliesin, he had little stomach for old friends turning up unexpectedly.

So he thought, and observed, and waited.  On the third day, Lady Liza arrived.

Zevran was lying in the stable hayloft, surveying the courtyard in front of the large farmhouse through the hay door.  Liza rode into the courtyard, her back straight and her hoods down, probably teased off of her head by the freshening breeze.  She was not a pretty woman, as such, but there was something appealing about her light blue eyes and direct gaze, something of a sly intelligence.

A farmhand saw the bann and went running off, shouting for Linnet.  The farmholder herself appeared a few moments later, her heavy apron smeared with substances Zevran did not want to think about too much, given that there were three cows in labor in one of the barns.  “Y’Grace,” said Linnet, drawing herself up to her full height.  “T’what do we owe the honor?”

“I am on my way home, and I will partake of the hospitality of your house,” the bann said, her tone leaving no room for argument.  “The horses need to be fed and watered, and my men need refreshment.”

“Your _men_ will eat with the rest of the hands, and there’s some spare cots in the bunkhouse.”  Linnet scowled.  “You can have the usual room.  I’ll get Gracie to freshen it.  We haven’t much hospitality to spare, y’grace.  Not this time of year.”  

“It will do,” Liza said.  “Liam, Gull, take the horses.  Jorun, bring my bags inside.  We’ll be here overnight, at least.  And I’m sure that the farmholder will see to _all_ our comforts.”

The guards glanced at each other, and smirked.  It seemed that Lady Liza’s little tryst was no secret at all.

They parted, and Zevran stood up and brushed hay from his clothing.  The game was in motion, and all was set.  He’d had to make a few educated guesses, but he had confidence even in those.  

It would play as it played.

Several hours later, he was ensconced on the rooftop above the room that Lady Liza had been given.  There had in fact been bedsport—Garret had boundless energy even after a full day of work, and Lady Liza seemed to have been badly in need of tending, as it were.  The music of pleasure continued late into the night, long after the lamps of the house and bunkhouse had been extinguished.

Then the voices from below him quieted.  He waited.  It would not be long now.  There was a flask of water on the table next to the bed; Zevran had treated it with a powerful sleeping draught.  After all, lovemaking was such _thirsty_ pleasure, was it not?

The murmurs of the lovers talking dwindled into silence.  Then the snores began.

Zevran counted to three hundred, and began to move.

He had a rope secured to the roof.  With it, he lowered himself to the window, which he had oiled to open easily and silently.  The shutters came open, and he slipped inside.  His dark-adapted eyes could quite clearly make out the figures on the bed; he paused and twitched an eyebrow upward.  He’d thought that Garret’s affection for the bann had been largely based on the older woman’s power and forceful manner, and the fact that her favor might mean he could eventually leave his mother’s farmhold.

Zevran could see now that the young man had more reasons than just practical concerns.  Lady Liza was built like a _goddess_.  Those were possibly some of the most perfect breasts he’d seen since leaving Antiva.  In a rather abstract sense, it was a pity that he was going to have to murder her.  

It was a pretty picture, really; the young man curled around the bann, Liza’s body stretched out and limned by what little starlight made its way through the window.  Both of them were dead to the world, and snoring.

Zevran crossed the floor silently, pulling out a thick pad of cloth made specifically for such occasions as these, when death must come quietly and leave no marks on the body.  He treated it with the contents of a vial, the smell of it stinging his nose, and began.

Garret did not stir when Zevran put the pad of cloth over Liza’s nose and mouth.  He counted to thirty, and Liza stopped snoring, falling into a sleep so deep that she would not be able to be awakened for many hours.  Then he put one hand under her jaw and lifted it up, positioning his fingertips near the large vain in her neck.

With the other hand, he pressed down on the cloth pad.

Time flowed by, and Lady Liza’s heartbeat first quickened, then slowed.  Then slowed more.  Then she shuddered, and her heart ceased to beat.  He kept the pad over her nose and mouth for some time after that, to be sure.

It was done.

He packed away the pad and the vial, and made for the window.  A little while later, he was slipping past the farmhold’s guard dogs (also drugged; he had no inclination to be caught on this outing) and into the hills that the farmhold backed onto.  

He had a bit of pity for the lad, who would wake to the cold body of his lover next to him in bed.  But likely none would suspect that it had been murder.

He could still hear Ville’s voice, drilling him ruthlessly on the eighty-nine precepts of the Crows, the series of questions and answers that formed the foundation of their philosophies, such as they were.

 _What is the perfect murder?_

 _The murder in which no mortal hand appears to have had a part in._

He walked into the night towards where he’d left his horse.  Tomorrow he would ride towards Amaranthine, with none the wiser.

And perhaps, once they returned to Vigil’s Keep, he would find Ville and see what it was that a legendary Crow wanted in Ferelden.

 


	7. Time Casts No Shadow

We sang,  
 _You cannot end!_  
 _You are the Golden City Blackened,_  
 _you are the pulsing heart of this world._  
 _Without you, the waters will rise_  
 _and shred us! We the abandoned eldest children,_  
 _who live among the soul-spired canvas_  
 _of our world! If you end, so do we!_

 _From the Canticle of Demons, stanza four: of the Black City_

* * *

 _Kathil:_

The jagged, crumbling walls of Amaranthine pressed wearily against the sky.

They passed through the camp that lined both sides of the road into Amaranthine to the accompaniment of stared and spitting rain. The camp seemed to be home to both those who were employed in the restoration of the city as well as those who had nowhere else to go. A small clump of men and women sat beneath a makeshift awning, using brightly colored paints on stretched canvas and arguing amongst themselves.

Kathil did see several banners emblazoned with the familiar red hill and tower of Redcliffe; evidently the men who had escorted Leliana and the King had made it to Amaranthine all right. They came to the gates and paused. It smelled like rot and blasted stone, Kathil noted after a moment. Strange, how that smell so quickly became normal. It was the same at Vigil's Keep, the smell of a place that had been besieged.

A man in a guard uniform greeted them just beyond the gates. "Warden-Commander, yes?" He surveyed the group behind her. "Laurens told me that you were going to visit, sooner or later. My name is Aidan—Constable of Amaranthine." He had a look of ill-concealed anxiety on his face.

 _As well you might, considering._

She smiled at the man. "Warden-Commander Kathil Amell, at your service. And allow me to present to you his benevolent majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden, as well as the Princess-Consort Rima and Prince Duncan." She swept a showy bow—that had been Leliana's idea, to present Alistair in as grand a manner as she could manage.

Aidan stammered and started as the crowd around Alistair and Rima parted. Duncan was planted on Alistair's hip, looking around with fascination. The constable recovered, eventually, enough to say, "I—ah—you are welcome, sire. We don't have much here, but, ah, you're welcome to it."

Alistair smiled, and for a moment Kathil could see an echo of the Grey Warden she'd met as Ostagar in that genuine and open expression. "We're here to see what help is needed, and to make a plan for the restoration of the city. But before we do that—is there anywhere inside the walls that my people can make camp?"

Aiden blinked. "Yes, but—" He shook his head. "I'll speak to Mother Leanna and see if space can be made in the chantry. There are no buildings within the walls other than the chantry that are sound enough to sleep in, and—well—" He shook his head. "People who try to spend the night in Amaranthine have nightmares, or something like them. Even the hardest men choose to sleep outside the walls. Mother Leanna has the Templars doing something to the chantry to keep the nightmares away, so it's the only place where people can sleep without waking screaming. Or worse."

"Worse?" Kathil asked. "What kind of worse?"

"One of the wall crews found an untouched crate of moonshine in one of the buildings they were pulling down," Aidan said. "They decided to spend the night and have a little party. A few of them passed out drunk. One of them started screaming about demons, and attacked the rest with the hammer he'd been using to demolish walls with. He killed five people and wounded another few before the screams caught our attention and we took him down."

Kathil chewed briefly on the inside of her cheek. Come to think of it, the Veil did feel a little... _strange_. She'd barely noticed, before. She exchanged a look with Cullen, and said, "The Wardens will stay outside the wall, in the camp, but the King may choose to house himself and his people in the chantry. We can have a look around. The King needs to see the current state of the city, and we may be able to find out if there's something causing the nightmares."

There was movement out of the corner of her eye; she turned and saw Justice stepping forward, one hand extended. "There are demons clustered against the Veil, here. They are hungry."

Alain stared at Justice, mouth falling open. Kathil gritted her teeth and reminded herself that Justice was trying to be helpful, and it wasn't his fault that tact was a human thing that he didn't understand. "I'm sure we can deal with it," she said, keeping her voice calm.

"Deal with it?" Justice turned to her, looking slightly confused. "What is there to deal with? The demons sense what they want very close by, and they will not leave until either their hunger is sated or the Veil thickens enough that they lose track of this place in the mortal world."

" _Justice._  Just drop it. You're scaring people." Indeed, Aidan had turned pale—though that was probably partially from having looked a bit too closely at Justice, who was looking some the worse for wear these days.

Justice blinked. "But do you not want the mortals here to know the truth?"

 _No. Not really._  "Remember what we spoke about, that sometimes information should be withheld until we have  _all_  of the truth, not just part of it? We haven't looked around, there may be something we can do."

He stared at her, those vague lights in his eyes dancing unsettlingly. "Very well," he said after a moment. We will investigate."

 _I wish I'd brought Sigrun. Or Anders._  They had patched up Leliana a bit, but healing her shattered kneecap was going to be a delicate procedure, one they didn't want to attempt while still on the road. Anders had studied with Wynne for years; if there was anyone who even approached her skill, it was him. Because Anders wasn't here, Leliana was still riding in the supply cart, along with the fellow who'd lost a hand.

And Sigrun knew how to manage Justice.

"I think we can convince the Redcliffe guards to host us," Alistair said. Rima gave him a look; he raised an eyebrow and shrugged. The Princess Consort rolled her eyes, but didn't comment. "As much as my lovely wife would probably like to sleep under a roof, I'm not sure I like the idea of these nightmares."

There was a darkness in the words  _nightmares_  that Kathil recognized. She tried to quell the sense of unease that curled deep in her body. There were consequences of what they had been, what they were; one of them was that Alistair's reign was likely to be short.

She shoved the thought away, and turned to the rest to make arrangements and begin their investigation.

But there was nothing to find, it seemed; just the Veil, worn thin by pain and death, and the nape-prickling sense that there was someone—somethings—watching them.

Amaranthine was large, but the burning had been thorough. Only the chantry had escaped serious structural damage, and even it had heavy cloth covering many holes in the roof. The interior of the city hosted ghosts and several crews of workers, but nothing more.

"Think of it this way," Alistair said. "When we rebuild it, we can make sure it's done right." They were standing in what had once been Amaranthine's alienage. The buildings here had been cheaply built, and had burned to the foundations—much like Denerim's alienage had, four years ago. "For instance, we can make sure that the alienage gets the same materials and care as the rest of the city—and decent sewers."

Rima had her hand on her husband's elbow. Kathil could feel Cullen at her shoulder, a silent, reassuring presence. They'd left the children in the Redcliffe camp for the moment. The Princess-Consort had been a silent observer as they walked through the destroyed city.

Now, though, she spoke.

"Perhaps it is time to rethink the need for alienages," she said, looking at what had once been a great tree and now was a tall stump. The  _vhenadahl_ had evidently burned from the inside out, hollowing out the great tree and making a small cave amongst the roots. "We've always had them, and we tell ourselves it's for the benefit of the elves, for their protection. But I'm not convinced that's the case."

Kathil felt her mouth fall open. This was a member of the  _nobility_  saying this? Lorn paused in his investigation of the _vhenadahl_  to raise his head and cock an ear at Kathil, evidently catching her mood. Fiann busied herself with digging amongst the roots of the dead tree.

Rima was speaking to Alistair, not paying the rest of them any attention. "The war deepened the rifts between the elves and the humans in this country. This might be a step towards fixing that."

Alistair was staring at his wife, brow furrowed. "It also might cause riots. People really don't like change, Rima. And I'd hate to see people get hurt because we didn't make sure the elves have somewhere safe to gather."

"Oh, I'm sure there will be an elven district," Rima said breezily. "If nothing else, we can plan a nice open square with a  _vhenadahl_  planted in it. Give that square the same care in construction that the rest of the city will get."

"You want to  _experiment_ ," Alistair said. He had a look of unease on his face. "I'm not sure—"

"Oh, now you're objecting to doing something that might reassure the elves that they are in fact full Fereldan citizens?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "After Loghain arranged to have them sold into slavery, I think a gesture on our part towards them would be the least we can do."

"Have I ever mentioned that you are dangerous?" He leaned over and kissed Rima on the cheek. "We can talk to the bann of Amaranthine about it when we meet with him."

Kathil exchanged a look with Cullen. Then she whistled to Lorn. "I should get back," she said, to the group at large. "I told Jowan that I'd help him work on Leliana's knee once we got the tents up and everyone settled. We're going to be here for a few days, and the condition of the Veil here is concerning but not urgent."

Alistair gave her a look; she read that twitch of eyebrow to mean,  _you're really going to let a maleficar attempt magic on Leliana?_  But he said nothing about it, and she didn't offer anything more. "I think Rima and I will go down to the docks," Alistair said. He gestured at the guards that were hanging back a bit from them. "Make these fellows earn their keep."

They parted ways. Cullen and the two Mabari went with Kathil, the rest with Alistair. They passed under a crumbling arch that had once been one of the alienage gates, and Cullen looked up at the scorched stone. "I'm not so sure that the Princess Consort knows what she might be getting us into," he said. He fingered the hilt of his sword idly. "Wonder if it's got anything to do with how she backed you into a corner about the Prince last summer."

"Mmm. It all seems part of some larger plan she has, doesn't it?" The city around them was silent except for the echoes of their footsteps and the muffled sound of hammers hitting stone. It was wrong, that silence; it seemed almost to whisper to Kathil. "A Circle of Magi under the supervision of the Crown instead of the Chantry. Elimination of the alienages. I wouldn't be surprised if she was the one who pushed Alistair to make a personal appearance in Amaranthine."

"It's good, though, right? Well, maybe not the Circle thing." Cullen's brow furrowed slightly, and Kathil had the abrupt urge to kiss the lines smooth. "But Alistair coming here can't hurt anything, especially if he has the confidence to bring Rima and the Prince with him. And the elves, well..." He shrugged one shoulder, the pauldron of his armor making a faint metallic noise. "Can't hurt  _that_  much, can it?"

"I wonder. I didn't hear her say she'd asked any elves what they thought about it, after all." They were almost within sight of the chantry steps. Kathil caught Cullen's hand. He stopped, turned towards her.

They had been sharing a tent on the way here, Cerys cradled between them at night. They would talk in quiet voices late into the night about anything and everything, words that they had both been keeping trapped behind their teeth over the last few months pouring out of them at last.

In the destroyed city where only scorch and silence was left, Kathil kissed her Templar, reminding herself of how far they had come, how far they had yet to go.

* * *

 _Alistair:_

The docks were the busiest part of Amaranthine, bar the camp that had sprung up just outside the city gates. The piers themselves seemed to have escaped the worst of the damage, though the once-thriving district of warehouses, public houses, and shady bars had been largely destroyed. He counted five ships in the harbor, though only two were in dock at the moment. One of those two was being actively unloaded; wiry men were carrying crates down a plank and stacking them under the watchful eye of what had to be the ship's quartermaster. That ship was flying an Orlesian flag; the crates would contain cloth and wine and such, then.

Rima was looking around, a glint of interest in her eyes. "One of my cousins went to sea, and she mentioned Amaranthine Quay in one of her letters. She was quite impressed at the time, though I imagine she'd find it much diminished now."

"Which cousin is this?" Alistair asked. "Sia?" Rima's family was large and loud and there were many, many cousins. He did remember that she had said that one particularly daring cousin had signed on with a merchant ship at some point.

"The same." Rima smiled. "Her parents were furious. I remember she wrote that Amaranthine was beautiful, but that the docks were the beating heart of the place.  _Nothing prettier than a ship in the harbor and the blue-green of the Waking Sea beyond,_  she said."

"It will be again, once the dock district is rebuilt. We should probably find the dockmaster." He glanced over the crowds of purposefully moving people, looking for someone who seemed to be in charge.

Something snagged the corner of his eye, and he frowned. An elven woman was standing by the plank of the ship being unloaded, one of the very few people who wasn't in motion. She was turned away from them, peering up to the deck. The hood of her cloak was pulled back, revealing dark, braided hair.

She looked—familiar.

He couldn't properly see her face, but something about how she carried herself was bringing to mind—what? Something about one of the estates in Denerim.

The elf waved at someone on the deck, and then stepped back as a human woman descended the plank. The human was older; her hair had probably once been a rich gold. She was dressed in the Orlesian style, in a dress and boots that were simply cut but made of very good material.

This was someone of wealth, then. And she, too, looked vaguely familiar.

She was followed by two men: one who had an energetic grace to him and an appealingly foxy face, and the other just barely out of boyhood, his long limbs making him look half-finished. There was a distinct family resemblance between the latter and the woman; son, Alistair would guess. The elf met the three of them at the base of the plank, and made a shallow curtsy. Then she pulled her hood up and began to lead the travelers to the pile of crates that was steadily growing on the dock.

"Is something wrong?" Rima asked. She followed his gaze, and he heard the ghost of a frown in her voice. "That's odd. That woman looks like an older version of Anora, doesn't she?"

The woman and the men were pulling up their hoods, collecting seabags from the pile. "Anora never had any sisters, and as far as I know her mother is dead," Alistair said. "Maybe a cousin?" He glanced at the flag on the ship's mast. The Orlesian lion was only visible as hint of gold between folds of drooping cloth.  _Orlais. Anora. Elf._

 _Erlina._

That was Erlina, Anora's Orlesian maid.

He'd never even thought to wonder what happened to her, after Anora was imprisoned. It looked like she'd found service somewhere. Erlina led the three humans to the end of the quay, and vanished around a bend in the road that led around Amaranthine.

"Do you know them?" Rima slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

 _Maybe I have._

But he shook his head. "The elf is someone I met briefly during the Blight. I haven't seen or thought about her since. I didn't recognize the others. Let's go find that dockmaster and get back, shall we? I think we may be prevailed upon to have dinner with Bann Padraig tonight."

Rima tightened her hand on his arm and smiled, and they went off to find the dockmaster. Still, in the back of his mind he could hear his uncle Eamon saying,  _she is possibly more than just a maid._

 __

* * *

_Leliana:_

"This is going to hurt," Kathil said as she unwrapped the bandages around Leliana's knee. "Maker, but that bruiser did a number on you, didn't he?"

"They don't call those hammers legcrushers because they are made of feathers, yes?" She breathed out as her knee reported fresh agony from the very slight jostling that Kathil was giving it. "And do you mean it is going to hurt more than it already does?"

Leliana was prone on a bedroll, looking up at the canvas of a tent ceiling. She thought, a bit wistfully, of the time she'd spent in Orlais and Tevinter, where there were inns and proper beds. And proper roofs.

"I'm afraid so," Kathil said as she removed the sticks that had been splinting the knee. "By the time we're done it should feel better, though. You're going to have to stay off of it for a while yet, though, and we're likely not going to get everything done in this session."

She nodded, and cast a glance to one side, where Jowan was laying out what looked like bundles of herbs and small vials out on a clean blanket. He'd stayed clean-shaven, she noted. And he had lost some of the perpetual look of a kicked puppy that he'd had in his eyes last summer.

He seemed to have behaved himself while she was gone.  _And now I am here to keep a close eye on you. Possibly too close for your comfort._

"I thought blood mages do not heal," Leliana said.  _Perhaps he is only here to be an extra set of hands._  That was nearly a comforting thought—surely a blood mage would be well acquainted with the sight of gore, and have hands that would be steady in the face of mangled human insides?

Kathil dashed her hopes with a shake of her head. "It's a different kind of healing than I use. Jowan's good at dealing with scar and tendons and ligaments and such, and moving bits and bobs around. Like your kneecap. But if he tries to work on muscle and skin, it scars badly. I can't deal well with tendon, and it would take me forever and a day to get your kneecap back together, but once everything's in about the right place I should be able to at least start the bone growing back together."

"I'll warn you that my variety of healing doesn't feel like regular mage healing," Jowan said. He was kneeling by her feet, and placed both of his hands on his thighs. "If it makes you feel better, it's going to hurt me about as much as it hurts you."

Leliana frowned, then gritted her teeth as an involuntary movement renewed the agony in her knee. "Why? I never noticed that Wynne was in pain when she healed."

"Blood magic works...how to explain it? It's a magic of affinity. What I'll be doing, more or less, is showing your body what my knee looks like, and suggesting that it needs to be arranged the same as mine. That requires a connection between the two limbs. While I'm working on you, I'll feel everything you do." He picked up a bundle of herbs, set it down again. "Just be glad it was your knee. Knees and hips are easy. Shoulders and elbows, less so. Wrists and ankles, well, you do too much damage to them and there's no magic in the world that will put it back together right. They're just too complicated."

Kathil ran one hand over her hair, face taking on a familiar expression of stubborn calm. "Jowan will take care of the things his magic is good at dealing with, and I'll take care of what I can do. Though I rather wish Anders were here." She plucked a vial from in front of Jowan, and worked the cork out. "Drink this."

"What is it?" Leliana asked as she took the metal vial from the mage's hand.

"Poppy milk, from Par Vollen. I save it for special occasions." She fixed Leliana with a stern look. "Drink it."

Leliana obeyed.

The mixture left a bitter, metallic taste in Leliana's mouth that even a cup of water couldn't wash away. A little bit later, she felt herself drift a little. She could still feel the pain from her knee, and the fear that no matter what these two mages were going to do it wouldn't be enough to restore the entire function of the joint, but they were remote things. Bearable.

Then Kathil and Jowan started to work, and the poppy milk was not  _nearly_  enough to keep the pain at bay.

The worst was that she could feel things  _moving_ , things that were not meant to move; she could feel motion all the way down to her ankle and up into her hips, and though that was not the painful part, it was  _unnatural_. And _disgusting_. Somehow, her whole body was sending out panicked signals that something very very  _wrong_  was happening and she should make it  _stop right now_.

Searching frantically for a distraction, she focused on Kathil and Jowan's voices. They were talking to each other in single words and in half-sentences, as if the magic they were doing together provided most of the communication they required. Leliana didn't understand much of it, but there was a rhythm to their words that reminded her of music. Then things blurred a bit more—the poppy taking more effect, perhaps, or perhaps the pain making her lightheaded.

She realized she could  _hear_  the mages' power, as if it were music. Jowan's power thrummed low, beating rhythmically like a drumbeat or a heartbeat. Kathil's power was a cold harmony against it, around it; there was something precise and still as midwinter about it. She listened to the music of their power and thought there was some meaning there to the way the echoes of it meshed together, as if rhythm and harmony were leaning on one another.

She listened, and she listened, and the pain in her knee lessened. She did not know when she stopped being awake and began to dream.

When she opened her eyes, the light in the tent was different—golden lamplight, rather than daylight from an open flap. Her knee hurt still, but it was more of a sharp ache instead of the urgent feeling of something being horribly awry with the limb.

"How are you feeling?" came Kathil's voice from somewhere by her feet.

Leliana struggled to sit up, and it seemed that the mage just appeared next to her head, putting something soft behind her back to support her. "Better. I do not feel as if my leg is about to fall off."

"Good." The lamplight cast the scar on Kathil's face in sharp relief, as if the furrow gathered shadow into itself. "We weren't able to get it all the way fixed, but at least now it should heal correctly. You still have to stay off your feet for a while, and we'll do at least one more session together to see if we can't hurry things along a bit. When we did much the same thing to Zevran, he was off his feet entirely for two weeks and mostly off of it for three more after that. It still hurts him, on cold mornings, but he seems to have mostly recovered."

"Wait. What happened to Zevran? And when?"

"Would-be toughs, just outside Lothering, and a stroke of bad luck. Much like yours, really, only with him it was a bad cut to the back of the ankle." She smiled a little. "I have to say that you're a much easier patient than he is. I thought I was going to have to tie him down for a bit."

"I think he might have enjoyed that, yes?" Leliana smiled back, and realized that her face felt oddly sore. She'd been grimacing almost constant for the last day and a half. "So. Is there a meal to be had, perhaps? And where is Murena?"

"I'll bring you something—the Redcliffe folk aren't bad cooks. Last time I saw Murena, she was organizing a bunch of children to go on a frog hunt. Something about the legs being good to eat." She ran a hand over her hair. "She's...not what I would have expected."

"I needed an apprentice, and I think Murena will be very good, one day." Very,  _very_  good; she was easily intelligent and charismatic enough to be a sundowner, if that was where her interests lay. "Once I convince her that here in Ferelden, one does not  _look_  at other people so, she will be easier company for all of us. Do not let yourself think that just because she doesn't not speak Fereldan well, she is ignorant. She understands much, much more than she speaks."

"Mmm. I imagine. I'd ask you where you came by her, but I don't think you'd tell me." The corners of Kathil's eyes crinkled. "I'll send her in, if I see her." She leaned over and pressed her lips to Leliana's hair.

Leliana leaned into her friend, and Kathil put her arms around Leliana's shoulders. There they stayed for a contemplative measure, Leliana's aching knee singing counterpoint to the comfort that the two of them took from one another.

Then Kathil rose and left, leaving Leliana alone to contemplate the music of power.

* * *

 _Cullen:_

Even after all of this time spent around Kathil, he never knew when to wake her from nightmares.

It was a cold night, and they were sleeping with Cerys between them for warmth. The chill damp seeped in everywhere, and beneath the blanket one of Kathil's cold feet sought Cullen's shin. The dogs were asleep on either side of them. Fiann was on her back, and snoring. Kathil had been worn out from healing Leliana and the vigil she'd sat afterwards, waiting for the bard to wake up, and she'd fallen asleep quickly.

But now she was making small, gasping noises, and her hands were clutching at the blanket.

That was all. No screaming, no whimpering, but it was as good as a shout to Cullen. He waited for a few heartbeats to see if she would settle, but then Cerys stirred and began to whimper, curling towards Cullen. He shifted to pull the infant close and with his free hand touched Kathil gently on the shoulder. "Kathil," he said, in a hushed tone. "Wake up. It's just a dream."

 _I hope._

With a final gasp she came awake, awareness suffusing her body. He could only barely see her in the flickering light that leaked in through the tent-flap from the torches that marked the entrance. She didn't speak, only lay still and breathed. One hand stole over to touch Cerys's sleeping form.

"Are you all right?" Cullen asked, finally.

She didn't answer for a moment. He'd have thought she'd fallen asleep if he couldn't see the glint of light on her open eyes. "I dreamed about Sati," she said. Her voice was low, sleep-roughened. "Only it wasn't her."

"The demon." He kept his hand on her shoulder.

"Yes." The breath went out of her in a slow, distant sigh. "She wants something. Somethings. There's something waiting for us in the Blackmarsh. She didn't say what."

"What else?"

Cerys began to make little whimpering noises. Kathil sat up, lifted up her shirt—it wasn't precisely prudent to sleep naked in an armed camp—and put the infant to her breast. "She wants me to send someone to keep an eye on things one of the states in the Free Marches. There are things happening up there that she thinks may reveal clues to where her Maker-forgotten daughter has gotten to. And, well." She brought her chin down, looked down at Cerys. "There are a few old places she wants me to investigate. Some of them are too far away right now—the Korcari Wilds, some places in the Frostbacks—but one is evidently right below Vigil's Keep. Evidently there's an Alamarri settlement in the basement."

"You'd think someone would have mentioned it," Cullen said.

She was sitting tailor-fashion, holding Cerys. "You'd think someone would have mentioned any  _number_  of things, wouldn't you? Like the fact that there may be something resident in the basement of the Vigil that is neither of the mortal world or the Fade. It may be related to the Unwilling, somehow. We'll see when we go down there."

"Or maybe we'll manage to release an eldritch horror into the world," he pointed out.

"Wouldn't be the first time." She brushed her hand over Cerys' head, then shifted the baby to her other breast. "I did get out of her that the thinning of the Veil here is temporary. It'll heal itself, given time. The burning of the city didn't scar it enough for it to become an old road permanently."

"Good," he said, and was surprised at the vehemence with which the word came out.

They were quiet then, for a little. Cerys made contented suckling noises; Fiann snored. Lorn woke and lifted his head. Evidently satisfied that there was nothing amiss, he put his head back down. Kathil changed Cerys and made a nest of blankets for her by Lorn, than laid the infant down and curled with her back towards Cullen. He curved his body around hers.

She was still strung tight. "You all right?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

One of Kathil's hands sought his in the darkness. "I miss Zev," she said. "And I'm worried about him."

All at once, the strangeness of the situation struck him—curled in a tent with this mage, their daughter, how quickly they'd fallen back into these small intimacies of sharing space. How he knew that she was going to steal all the blankets, leaving him to wake cold and damp at dawn.

"I miss him, too," he said, and kissed her hair just behind her ear.  _Strange, but not so strange._ "He'll be all right. Go to sleep."

She closed her hand around his, and pulled it up. He felt her lips graze his knuckles. She murmured something too quiet for him to hear, even close as he was to her, and then breathed out.

They lay like that for a time, the background noise of a sleeping camp all around them. A long way away, an owl cried in the darkness.

* * *

 _Alistair:_

High on the walk that led around the walls of Amaranthine, Alistair peered down into the city street below him. A group of men and women dressed in sturdy clothing were gathered near the remnants of what had once been an inn; a scorched sign leaning against a fence depicted a rampant lion with a crown hovering over its head. Among the workers was a familiar dark head. Jowan's mage robes were as out of place in the destroyed city as a pine among oaks.

A little way off, a Amaranthine Templar stood with crossed arms, watching.

At Alistair's feet, Duncan was exploring the smooth stone with his hands. He got up and began to wobble down the walkway, one hand on the wall. Alistair let him go—he couldn't easily get out of Alistair's sight, and even if did there was a silent guard at the end of the walkway, watching.

Below him, he could feel the Veil tear. Alistair looked over the wall just in time to see an earthen projectile materialize in front of Jowan's hands and go flying into the ruins. The projectile smashed into a support, and the remnants of the second floor groaned and shuddered.

There was a soft step and a feeling of pressure behind him, and Alistair turned. Kathil was there, holding Cerys, Lorn beside her. She came to the wall beside him, peered down. "Ah. That's where Jowan got to." She gave him a sidelong glance. "I think he's trying to both make himself useful and avoid you and Leliana."

"He seems to have gotten wiser, at least." Duncan was coming back down the walkway towards them, murmuring a steady stream of unintelligible gabble. Alistair stepped over to him and scooped him up, settling the boy on his hip. Not discomfited in the least, the Prince looked at Kathil with a calm, considering look on his face.

Kathil, for her part, gave Alistair a crooked smile. "He has, I suppose. As have we all." The Veil tore again and another earthen projectile crashed into the inn. The whole structure shuddered. "Eamon knows, doesn't he? That Jowan was conscripted."

"He does, and before you ask, he had a rather  _monumental_  fit of rage over it. Though, for some reason, he seems to blame Teagan."

Kathil shifted Cerys in her arms, holding her so she could see. The baby caught sight of Duncan and was immediately entranced. She stuck most of her fist into her mouth, staring at Duncan. "Considering that Teagan was the one whose watch Jowan escaped on, I'm not surprised." Kathil turned a bit, setting one hip against the wall. She was wearing not armor but a rather plain tunic and skirt, her hair braided back. She might have passed for some farmer's wife, if you ignored the swordbelt and the scars on her face and hands—or the Mabari who was lying behind her, ears twitching. "You seem to be taking his presence calmly enough."

"I've had a few years to get used to things happening that I don't really like," he told her, looking over the wall again. Another projectile, and this time the inn gave a groan and began to collapse, to the approving shouts of the gathered workers. "Including maleficar Grey Wardens who have such a...problematic history."

She wrinkled her nose. "We all have problematic histories, Alistair. I was not precisely a model citizen of the Tower. Cullen is a Templar who couldn't manage to keep his vows. Justice is rather dead, Anders is  _very_  bad at dealing with people trying to keep him places he doesn't want to be, Oghren is...well, he's Oghren. Sigrun has a death wish. Nathaniel is a Howe, and there are ways that he reminds me of his father."

"What ways?" he asked. Duncan wriggled, and Alistair let the boy down. He immediately toddled over to Lorn, reaching out his hand as Emris had taught him to greet Yvonnel.

Below them, people started to venture into the ruins of the inn, beginning to haul out pieces and sort them into some nearby carts. Jowan was among them, Alistair noted with some surprise, digging in with both hands.

"Ever wonder why Rendon Howe was the way he was?" Kathil asked. "Nobody's ever been able to tell me. But the man obviously thought he had been ill done by, and there was a sort of...grasping-ness to him, I suppose. In his own mind, he was obviously doing the best thing for his family. I'm not sure if what was best for Ferelden really entered into it like it did with Loghain." She shook her head. "Nathaniel evidently worshipped his father, and he was the eldest—and it was Nathaniel that Rendon sent to the Free Marches. I wonder if, somewhere under the person he had become, Rendon somehow recognized himself in his son."

"And sent him away so he wouldn't become even more like him?

"Even so." In Kathil's arms, Cerys wriggled and fussed. "Oh, little one, what is it now? You're fed, you're—" she bent down a bit and sniffed— "dry, and isn't being up here on the wall sufficiently entertaining?"

The infant arched her back, her face wrinkling up. She was reaching vaguely towards where Lorn lay beside them with a long-suffering look on his canine face. Duncan was gnawing on one of the Mabari's ears. "Oh, fine," Kathil said, and stooped to set Cerys between Lorn's front feet. "You and the dogs, honestly. Duncan, no biting the warhound."

Cerys reached up, hands waving vaguely at the underside of Lorn's chin. Duncan left off his gnawing, though that had less to do with Kathil's words than it had with the sudden appearance of a baby near him. He chortled and wiggled around to where he could look at Cerys.

"So, ah..." How  _did_  one approach this subject? "You married Zevran. So you and Cullen..."

She quirked the corner of her mouth, the scar deepening. "It's a very long story. If you're asking about the particulars of our domestic arrangements, they're none of your business. But they're both fathers to Cerys. The more family she has, the better. We never know what the morrow will bring, and, well..." She gestured at herself. "Grey Warden. You know."

He did, and he knew the chest-crushing panic that came at the thought of not being there to see his son grow into a man, as his own father had not. "I know. I got the box you sent, by the by. I have to admit to being a bit curious as to what's in it."

"Ah. That." She glanced at her daughter, and Alistair didn't think she realized that her expression was for once entirely transparent. Love mingled with ferocity in the set of her jaw. "Cerys' inheritance. Letters, documents, proof of various favors her mother is owed." She glanced at him. "I won't have her used as a pawn in someone else's power struggles, Alistair. You may want to let your lady wife know."

He gave her a calm look. "Says the woman who claims that the Chantry has no sovereignty in Vigil's Keep."

"Well, it  _doesn't_. Not as long as I hold command there. Besides, the Chantry and I have some longstanding disagreements." She glanced down at her daughter again. Good-natured shouts floated up from below them.

Alistair bit back a chuckle. "So I've noticed. I hope you realize just how much trouble you're going to cause."

Kathil cocked an eyebrow. "You're the one who told me I should take up the command.  _Without_  telling me that you _also_  expected me to become arlessa."

"And as I recall, you're the one who put me on the throne, pretty much single-handedly." He leaned over the wall again, watching four people haul a scorched beam out of the wreckage. "Thought it was only fair of me to return the favor."

"And you wanted to set a precedent. Just in case." She blew a breath out. "You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are, Alistair."

He glanced over at Duncan, who had uncovered one of Cerys' feet from the blanket that was wrapped around her and was patting it. The baby had managed to get Lorn's lower lip clenched in her chubby hand, and studiously pulling it to and fro. The Mabari was sitting very still indeed. "Probably," Alistair said affably. "Was it so wrong of me to want to have an example of a mage holding power and the world not ending? The Chantry and the Landsmeet aside, I think a little experimentation is in order."

"Yes, well. You weren't exactly expecting me to show up to Vigil's Keep with a baby in tow, were you?" There was a rumble below them as men began to haul one of the loaded carts away. The smell of smoke was lodged in the back on Alistair's throat. He'd never been to amaranthine, before it burned. Even in the ruin, he could see places where it must have been magnificent—the shadowed sketch of a building, the remnants of a window made of colored glass. Kathil was looking out over the city, as well, her eyes focused on something far away. "We found the mark of the Chantry Seekers on a paper that the bandit leader had on him, Alistair."

Shock was like a bucket of cold water over his head. "We don't have any active Seekers in Ferelden," he said. "We're too much of a backwater for them to bother with."

"Maybe we still are, and those bandits were hired by someone else. Might have been a coincidence." Her tone said, _but it's not likely._  "If it is a Seeker, this has been in the works for some time. Longer than the month I've been in Amaranthine. Possibly for years."

The weight of everything he was responsible to and for was heavy on his shoulders, just now. "I can't go against the Chantry. Not in public. Not even for the Wardens." He'd never been aware of just how influential the Chantry was in affairs of state until he'd become King and the priests were suddenly everywhere—the Grand Cleric inviting herself in for a private audience with him, elaborately-robed women with earnest faces doing good works everywhere and all of them with a kind word about Alistair to anyone who might have questioned his rule.

The country was not  _precisely_  run by the Chantry. There were days, though, that it seemed like their hands were in every kitchen and every armory, and Alistair risked crossing the Chantry at his peril.

"I'm not expecting you to. Just—ask the Grand Cleric. Find out what she knows about any Seeker activity in Ferelden. She may not tell you, but if she tells anyone it'll be you." She stepped away from the wall, and stooped next to Lorn; the warhound shoved his head affectionately against her knee. A flock of swallows darted over the ruins of the city, calling shrilly to one another as they swooped and wove among the ruins. "I would like to be wrong about this."

"I hope you are." Duncan had clambered to his feet and went toddling purposefully off down the walkway. Alistair reached for words, only to have them slip away from him. She wasn't telling him everything, not nearly. Long gone were the days when they would share a cup of water at night by the fire, when she'd been a constant presence on his sword side during battles.

Even back then, he suspected, she hadn't been telling him everything, not by half.

"I saw Erlina," he heard himself blurt. "With a woman who looked like an older version of Anora."

He saw her start and blink. "That's not a name I've heard in some time. Anora's still locked up?"

"Safe as houses, I'm told." Duncan fell and began to wail, and Alistair stepped over to pick up his small son. "No harm done, little man. I never even thought about what might have happened to Anora's maid."

There was a thoughtful look on Kathil's face. "Tell Leliana," she said. "I have a feeling she may know a bit more about Erlina than she's ever mentioned."

"Just because they're both Orlesian—"

"Because Leliana looked at Erlina like she recognized her, when we went to rescue Anora and got ourselves thrown in prison for our trouble." She stooped to pick up Cerys, rescuing Lorn from further exploration by curious little fingers. "Just tell her. If nothing else, Leliana may yet have some contacts she can ask about her. I don't have anything, but I am not a bard."

Duncan sighed gustily and put his head down on Alistair's shoulder. "I will," Alistair said, shifting his grip on his small son.

"And on that note—" Kathil peered over the wall. "I don't like the look of that Templar, but there's not much I can do about him. I have some things to take care of—we're meeting with Padraig this afternoon, yes? Armed with Mistress Woolsey's codicils."

"Sharper than swords, those are," he said. "Sundown at the bann's manor, what's left of it."

She smiled at him, and took her leave. Alistair listened to the sound of her boots and Lorn's claws ticking on the stone, retreating. "Back to it, I suppose," he told Duncan, who murmured in response. The boy's body was relaxing in his arms, and his head was heavy on Alistair's shoulder. "And I think someone needs a nap, little man."

These moments were so few, when he could be for a few minutes not a king or a Warden but just a father. He was determined that Duncan would never wonder whether his father loved him.

He carried his sleepy son down the stairs, trying to memorize this moment.

* * *

 _Jowan:_

It was unexpectedly good to get his hands dirty.

He'd picked up work like the demolition he was helping with in the years after he'd escaped the Tower, but he hadn't realized how much of a taste he'd developed for it. It was good to look at something physical, something  _real_ , and be able to say  _I did that_. He'd overheard one of the crews talking about the inn, trying to plan how to bring the rest of it down without anyone getting crushed in the process.

He'd volunteered to help, and though it had taken some fast talking to keep the crew from running away when he suggested he could use magic to help knock down the rickety structure, they had evidently decided that he  _must_  be all right, since he was a Warden, and invited him to help.

He'd pitched in after the knocking-down was done out of habit, if nothing else. It was useful, and it kept him out of the way of anyone who might not want to run into him. (He still remembered Leliana's look when she'd realized that Jowan would be helping with her knee. It had run from doubt to disgust before vanishing like all expressions did on the bard's well-schooled face.)

All afternoon, he'd worked with the crew, ignoring the watchful Templar who stood on the Chantry steps. Now it was coming on sunset and they were clearing out of the city before night fell and brought with it a further thinning of the Veil. He'd gotten used it how the city felt, during the afternoon. It was as if the city itself were a half-healed wound.

He passed through the gates and headed for the makeshift bathing facilities that had been set up to one side of the large camp just outside the city. A couple of bits purchased him the use of a tub of water, some soap, and a rough cloth to use as a towel, with a curtain for a modicum of privacy. He stripped out of his robes—he should have worn shirt and trousers, but hadn't thought of it—heated the water a bit with a murmured word, and stepped into the washtub. It wasn't even big enough to sit down in, but Jowan made do.

After scrubbing himself down, he got out, dried off, and looked at his robes in distaste.  _Think I'll just borrow this towel and head back to my tent, I can air these overnight and beat them in the morning._  He pulled on his shoes and wrapped the towel around his waist. People wandered around the camp in less, and it wasn't a very long walk back to his tent. He pulled back the curtain, intending to head straight back.

"Warden?"

On the other side of the curtain stood a woman with a worried expression on her face, holding a baby.. After a moment, he realized that, yes, the woman was taking to  _him_. "Er. Yes? I am."

The woman's shoulders sagged in relief. "Oh, good. I've been trying to speak with one of you the whole day, but it's been impossible. I was hoping—do you have any news of my brother? He promised to write, or visit, and he hasn't done either yet. Is he all right? Does he live?"

Jowan blinked. "I, ah...who's your brother? Is he a Warden?"

The woman frowned. "You mean he never mentioned me? My name is Delilah—Nathaniel Howe is my brother."

Same grey eyes, similar noses; he could see the resemblance, though Delilah Howe was prettier than he'd have thought anyone related to Nathaniel would be. "Nathaniel! Right. He's fine, he's currently journeying to Rainesfere with another Warden. They're expected back in a few weeks." He shifted, a bit uncomfortably; the sun had almost gone down, and a cold wind was coming up and raising goosebumps all over his bare skin. "I can tell him I saw you."

"Would you also tell him that my—my husband..." She broke off, her face contorting. "I'm sorry. Albert was injured when the darkspawn attacked. He lost his leg, and he's still very ill. Please, when you see him, could you ask him to come see us? I so wanted him to meet Albert, and he hasn't yet met Idris yet." She glanced down at the baby she held.

(It was still strange, to see babies. The first infant he ever recalled seeing was after he fled the Tower, in Redcliffe. He was twenty-two years old.)

He sucked in a breath. "I'll let him know when I see him. Are you staying in the camp, here?"

She shifted, looking uncomfortable. "We're staying at the chantry for the moment, the sisters are looking after Albert. I should go. I don't like to venture into the city after dark." Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and hurried away, hunched slightly as if having the urge to curl around her child.

He watched her go, then picked up his robes and headed for his tent. From the gathering dim came a wolf whistle. Jowan reflexively looked around to see who was being whistled at, but didn't see anyone. He shrugged and moved on.

It wasn't until later that he realized that whoever the whistler had been, there was a possibility it had been aimed at  _him_.

A little while later, he was settled in by the fire with a wooden bowl of stew—a bit thin, but excellent even so. A couple of strapping Redcliffe lads carried Leliana out of her tent and settled her in a nest of blankets and grain sacks near the fire. The bard took the attention in stride.

Leliana's apprentice appeared out of the gloom, carrying a pair of instruments—a set of pipes in one hand, a small drum in the other. A small crowd of children trailed behind the girl, all of them less than six years old. There wasn't more than three or four of them, but they were all gigglesome and friendly, climbing into laps and yanking on beards. One, an older boy, poked the fire they were sitting around with a stick.

Jowan didn't see Kathil or Cullen or any of the royal family; not even any of the Mabari. Justice passed by, but the Fade spirit didn't stop to warm himself at the fire. The body the spirit inhabited was starting to tatter around the edges; Jowan wasn't sure how much longer it would last, and Justice refused to answer any questions about what might happen when it decayed any more.

"Do 'General Maferath'," one of the guards said to Leliana. "Please?"

The bard smiled. There were still lines between her eyebrows and at the corners of her mouth that told Jowan that her knee was still bothering her, but she seemed to be bearing up well. "Very well, since you ask so nicely, but I expect you all to help, yes?"

The guard laughed and agreed, and Leliana picked up the little drum that Murena had brought. She didn't raise her hand to it right away, though, just adjusted so she was sitting a bit more upright. She drew a breath, and began to sing.

" _Well, General Maferath gained the day_

 _Walk him along, John, carry him along_

 _Well General Maferath gained the day—"_

She motioned around the fire, and the rest of them joined in with the last line of the verse. " _Carry him to his burying ground!"_

They did the chorus together, and then fell silent. Leliana motioned at the guard who had asked for the song in the first place, and the man grinned and sang, " _We'll dig his grave with a silver spade—"_

" _Walk him along, John, carry him along—_ "

The next was another guard: " _A shroud of the finest silk will be made—_ "

" _Carry him to his burying ground!_ "

Leliana gave soft thumps on the drum as the chorus was joined. It was a slow, nearly funereal beat. " _Tell me whe're ya, Stormy—walk him along, John, carry him along—_ "

They continued like that for another verse, and then at the beginning of the next one, Leliana motioned at Jowan. He made a credible attempt at the line, " _We'll lower him down on a golden chain—_ "

" _Walk him along, John, carry him along—_ "

There was a stir at the edge of the circle, and Cullen sang the next line: " _And on every inch we'll carve his name!_ " Jowan twisted his neck and saw that Cullen and Kathil and the dogs had arrived; they settled in during the next chorus.

'General Maferath' had a  _lot_  of verses, just about as many verses as was necessary to allow everyone who wanted a chance to sing a line to get one. They seemed to be winding down when Jowan saw Leliana catch the eye of someone approaching the fire, and motioned to them.

Alistair's tenor rang out. " _General Maferath, he's long dead and gone—_ "

" _Walk him along, John, carry him along—_ "

Then another voice—Rima's sweet, light voice, steel beneath the velvet. " _Yes, General Maferath's long dead and gone!_ "

There was a brief cheer at the words, as was traditional, and then they finished the verse. Leliana sang the last chorus alone, letting her voice rise to the sky and the distant stars. Alistair and Rima had settled in at the fire by this point. "You know, if you just listened to the words, you'd never know that was a satirical song," Alistair said to Leliana.

Leliana shifted where she sat, reaching for the pipes. "It was written, it's said, in Maferath's camp just after he betrayed Andraste. Here was the general, still alive, and his troops were all singing about what a very splendid funeral they were going to give him. I am sure it must have been unnerving."

"I think I should remember that," Kathil said. "It would be a good demoralizing tactic." Cullen, next to her, rolled his eyes. "What? You have to find good ideas where you can."

Jowan rose, and looked at Kathil. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

She nodded, handed Cerys to Cullen, and rose. They stepped into the shadow of one of the large tents—not privacy, but as best as they could do without leaving the camp entirely. "You look like you have bad news," Kathil said to him.

"Maybe." He chewed briefly on the inside of his cheek. He could hear a pipe starting up—Leliana playing once more. "I was stopped on my way back to the camp by Nathaniel's sister Delilah."

Kathil blinked. "He mentioned a sister, but—she's  _here_? What did she want?"

"Wanted to know if Nathaniel's alive and well. Evidently, he hasn't been to visit since the city burned, and hasn't written."

"There hasn't exactly been anything like reliable messenger service between the Vigil and Amaranthine." She scratched her chin.

"She said her husband lost his leg during the battle, and he's still very ill."

She breathed out. "Ah." They were both silent for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire and the voice of the pipes, and beyond them the sounds of several hundred people settling in for the evening. "Where are they? Did she say?"

"In the chantry. I think the sisters are running a makeshift infirmary."

"Which would explain why there's not one out here." She glanced over her shoulder, back towards the fire. "You know, it would probably be extraordinarily foolish for us to walk into the chantry, especially given what happened and the road, and that Mother Leanna was the one who sent that troop of Templars to try to convince me to give up Cerys. They don't dare try anything openly with Alistair around—my friendship with him is well-known—but actually walking into the chantry might be tempting fate, as it were."

He eyed her. "You sound like there's an  _and yet_  in there somewhere."

There was a smile lingering around the corners of her mouth. "Do you really think I could face Nathaniel if I didn't at least make an effort to help his family if they need it?"

"I was afraid of that," he said. "You know, it's been since I escaped since I've been in a chantry proper—and even then, it was just the Tower chapel. I suppose every streak has to end sometime."

"You don't have to come along with me," she said, frowning. "If fact, it's probably better that you don't."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want to make a point, right? And if the point is that Grey Wardens go where they want, when they want, and  _how_  they want, I don't see any better way than the two of us marching into the lair of the Templars."

Kathil just looked at him for a moment, and then her narrow face split in a smile. "Well, then. Tomorrow, we'll go face down some sisters."

It was a tenuous sort of peace between them, but it had the echoes of the friendship that had once existed. Where once they had planned to play pranks on the Templars, and schemed to get out of the Tower for the brief moments that they could, the games they played now had higher stakes and far less pity.

But there was something burning within him as they made their way back to the fire. It was a feeling of warmth, spreading through his chest.

It took him some time to recognize it as a sense of pride. In himself, in the Wardens, in Kathil.

 _Tomorrow, then._

 __

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> This is one of those chapters where I just had to stop writing, because we were getting close to 10k words and that's just a huge chunk of text. But we're making progress.
> 
> "General Maferath" is based on a traditional song called "General Taylor" (Great Big Sea does a good version.). The lyrics are pretty close to what I've put in here, and in fact that version of the lyrics were composed before the eponymous general (aka US President Zachary Taylor) died. Whether it was written to unnerve him or not, history doesn't record, but I imagine it's creepy to be walking through your camp and have people singing a happy ditty about how awesome your funeral is going to be.


	8. The Rag-and-Bone Shop of the Heart

_Let us speak now of your children, mortals._

 _We see them, each trembling and knock-kneed,_   
_raising their wavering power against those they have found themselves_   
_caged unto.  We see them, and we pity them._

 _For they die, those shivering children,_   
_those children you dash against the rocks unwilling,_   
_those tender children, those sweet children,_   
_those children who open gently to our searching hands._

 _—From The Canticle of Demons, stanza six: of the Harrowed_

*****

 _Jowan:_

They walked into the chantry as if to face down an enemy, flanked by all of the warriors they could bring without making it _completely_ obvious that they expected trouble.  

He, Kathil, and Alistair were in the center, Kathil carrying Cerys.  (“I won’t leave her behind,” she’d said.   “Maker only knows who would try something.”)  On her left was Cullen; on Jowan’s right was Justice.  The Mabari flanked them, walking a bit ahead.  Behind them came four of Alistair’s guards, three men and a woman.

(“I’m a Grey Warden,” Alistair had pointed out when Kathil had tried to dissuade him from coming along.  “Drank the darkspawn blood and everything.  Besides, I’d like to make it _very_ clear that you have the support of the crown.”  Kathil had just shrugged and told him that he’d better change, then.  Alistair had just been hugged by a very enthusiastic and extremely muddy Duncan.)

Revered Mother Leanna was waiting for them by the altar.   _She looks like she’s spent years sucking on alum._  She leaned heavily on a cane made of polished wood.

As they approached, the priest eyed them all and then inclined her head towards Alistair.  “Your Majesty,” she said.  Then to the rest of them, “Wardens.”

She managed to put an entire winter’s worth of ice into that one word.  

“Revered Mother,” Alistair said.  “We hear you have some wounded here.  The Warden-Commander and the other Warden have some healing talent between the two of them, and thought they might be able to help.”

The expression on the Revered Mother’s face did not alter a hair.  “No.”

Alistair blinked, taken aback, but it was Kathil who answered.  “Do share your reasoning, Revered Mother.”

The woman drew in a breath, and straightened.  Despite her pinched face and her hunched shoulders, she was still an imposing figure.  She put Jowan in mind of one of the Sisters who’d been at the Tower, the one who would smack the back of your head if she caught you nodding off at prayers.  “I have a responsibility to protect those in my care,” she said.  “That one—” and she gestured at Jowan— “is a known maleficar.  You are an apostate, and possibly a maleficar.  You may be able to hide behind the banner of the Grey, but that does _not_ oblige me to allow you access to those who are wounded here.”

Kathil cocked her head.  “And so you cut them off from their best hope of a full recovery?”

“And how am I to know what you intend?” Mother Leanna asked, her voice going sharp.  “The _maleficar_ may wish merely to spill more blood, and from what I hear _you_ are far better at taking men apart than you are at putting them together again.”

There was silence for a moment, and Jowan was very aware of the Templars who stood with their backs to the walls.  If a fight started here, they would shut down both him and Kathil in moments.  They weren’t _helpless_ without magic, but the odds of them surviving would drop precipitously if both of them were hit with the cleansing.  

Then Kathil spoke, and her voice held more than a little fatigue.  “Revered Mother, this is not about you protecting those who are wounded, and I am already tired of your insistence that it is.  This has to do with a disagreement that you have with me, as well as a troop of Templars you sent to take my daughter away from me.”

“They were sent to _rescue_ her,” Leanna said.  She did not back down, or flinch from Kathil’s steady gaze.  “We remove the children of mages for their own good, so they cannot be touched by the demons who torment their parents’ souls.  Little ones are so vulnerable, their minds so open.”

“Oh, _please_.”  Kathil stepped forward; Jowan saw Cerys squirm a little as her mother’s grip on her tightened.  “Let’s be honest with each other, shall we?  The Chantry has an interest in controlling the Circle, which means controlling all of the mages it can find.  Without the Circle, the Chantry loses half of its power.  It _does_ retain the other half.”  She inclined her head towards one of the Templars nearby.  “I represent a threat to that control.”

“You are very... _visible_.  You should be setting an example, not flouting the law.”  Mother Leanna’s face had gone to stone.  

Kathil made a sound that was half sigh, half snort.  “But I _am_ setting an example.  Just not the one that you’d like me to set.”

The Revered Mother’s face flushed.  “Get.   _Out_.  You will not speak this heresy under the roof of the Chantry.”

There were a few breaths of silence then, and for a moment Jowan almost thought he could see two opposing forces facing off.  Not just a pinched old woman and a small, battered mage, but the shadow of dragon wings behind Kathil, the suggestion of thousands of raised swords behind Leanna.  

 _Unstoppable force, meet immoveable object._

“Let us be clear,” Kathil said.  Her voice was an icy wind through the nave.  “You are throwing Grey Wardens out of this Chantry.  You are throwing _the King_ out.  And you are throwing out two of the people _who saved your sorry sodding asses from the Blight_.”  She paused and eyed the Revered Mother.  “You may want to reconsider those words.”

Mother Leanna was visibly taken aback.  She’d made a tactical error, Jowan saw, and well she knew it.  The Chantry, like everyone else, had a vested interest in remaining in good odor with the Crown.  If it got back to Denerim that she had thrown the King out on his ear...

She’d be defrocked and sent off to some little village in the middle of nowhere to spend the rest of her days.

Jowan found the thought quite cheering, actually.

“I, ah—of course I didn’t mean King Alistair—my apologies, sire, I didn’t mean—”  She paused and took a breath apparently struggling to regain her composure.  “Of course the King is welcome to stay—”

“And I am still a Grey Warden,” Alistair said.  “I’ve made it quite clear to the Grand Cleric my opinions on Kathil as Warden-Commander.  Do I _really_ need to reiterate them?”

For a moment it looked like the wind had been taken out of the Revered Mother’s sails.  But then she rallied, took a breath, gripped the head of her cane more tightly.  “With all respect, sire, simply because the Warden-Commander has the favor of the Crown does not mean she can come into _my_ chantry and speak what she knows very well is heresy.  The Wardens have no influence here.”   _And well you all know it,_ her sharp look said.

Jowan expected Kathil to retort, but instead it was Justice who spoke.  “Is it not the mission of this human religion to sing your Chant of Light from everywhere in the world?”

For the first time, the Revered Mother looked closely at Justice.  She visibly paled, but otherwise maintained her composure.  “It’s the primary mission, yes, among others.”

Justice gave the woman a long look, calmly measuring her. “Then why do you put your Chant in danger of having several fewer voices with which to sing it?”  He sounded genuinely curious.  

“ _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond._ ”  The Revered Mother’s voice was inexorable as a tide.  “We do not treat with maleficars, Warden.”

The spirit tilted his head.  “And those are the words of your Andraste?”

Leanna blinked.  “They are.”

“It is strange,” Justice mused.  “Her words are clear, yet the interpretation seems to be in doubt.  From what I understand, she was speaking against those mages who sought to rule over this world.  And even in her words, she calls mortal magic a gift from her Maker.  She does not mention blood magic.  Merely magic that has been turned against mortals.”  

“Even if that is so, there is the matter of the law.”  Jowan could almost swear that the Revered Mother was enjoying herself.  “The laws of the Chantry and the land are very clear, and for good reason.  Blood magic is a foul perversion of a Maker-given gift, a power gifted by demons.”  The woman’s face settled into a steely mien.  “Come to me when you have seen a child gutted for his innocent blood, when you have seen a village slaughtered by a demon’s minions, and tell me of _tolerance_.  There must be _none_.”

Justice raised one gloved hand.  Jowan had seen that hand bare, recently; it was mottled with dark bruise, a bloodless fissure in the palm showing grey tendon and white bone.  “I have recently come to understand that the human words for _law_ and _justice_ do not mean precisely the same thing.  The law may be unjust.  Justice may be unlawful.”  He paused, his drawn face thoughtful.  “To blindly follow the law may lead to injustices.  For instance, the Warden here is a blood mage, that is true enough.  But the Commander has more of the scent of demons about her, despite the fact that she does not use blood magic.”

Jowan’s stomach flipped over.   _Maker, Justice, can you_ ever _leave well enough alone?_

But Kathil was just _standing_ there, looking interested, and Jowan wondered what was going on here that he was missing.

Leanna was retaining an iron grip on her composure.  “The Commander...has the scent of demons?”

“Indeed.  Of course, so does this place.”  He gestured at the front of the chantry, and off to the side.  “Particularly over there, at the edge of where the Templars have been able to close the Veil.  I would not be surprised to see that place tear soon.”

Jowan remembered the spirit saying something about that earlier, something about the Templars in the chantry pulling the Veil closed so tightly over that area that the weakened Veil in the rest of the city was having difficulty compensating.  It was so strong in the chantry that it was causing localized weaknesses nearby.  

Rather _too_ nearby for the Revered Mother’s comfort, it seemed.

She glanced at the Templar who stood closest to her, who inclined his head with a soft creak of metal and leather.  “We were trying to tell you, your Reverence.  We have been closing the tears as we can, but there aren’t enough of us.”

There was a single moment when Mother Leanna looked uncertain, as if she were briefly entertaining the idea that somehow her own Templars were in collusion with the Wardens.  Then she took a breath.  “We will discuss this.  Sire, Wardens—you must excuse me.”

“We can help move your people,” Kathil said, exactly as if it had just occurred to her that they could be useful.  

“Perhaps,” the Revered Mother said, though it sounded like _Over my dead body_.  “Please, you must excuse me.”

Kathil nodded, motioned to the rest of them.  They retreated through the doors of the chantry.  Lorn stuck close by his mistress, eyeing the knights who stood motionless against the walls.  Cerys started to fuss.  Kathil took a deep breath, shifted the child in her arms, glanced at Cullen.  “That went about as well as I expected,” she said, keeping her voice low.  “Let’s head back.”

The area outside the chantry held a commanding view of much of the city, and held a statue of Andraste and a bare Chanter’s Board, currently unmanned.  Behind them, the doors of the Chantry closed.  “You took a risk there,” Jowan said.  

“A calculated one,” Alistair replied.  “She’d never hear the end of it if she actually started a physical fight with the King in the room.  Not that I don’t think she was tempted.”

“And I cheated a bit,” Kathil said, and a smile surfaced on her face and vanished like a fish flashing fin in a dark pool.  “Justice and I did some reconnaissance yesterday.  Once I understood what was happening to the Veil here, I thought that the Revered Mother might care about it if it was brought to her attention.”  

“Besides,” Alistair added, “on occasion the chantry needs to be reminded that despite everything, we _did_ save them.”

Anything more he might have had to say was forestalled by the opening of the doors of the chantry.  A woman slipped through the doors and shut them behind her. She was carrying a baby in her arms, wrapped in embroidered cloth.  Jowan felt his chest tighten; the woman was Delilah Howe.  Her shoulders were stiff, and her mouth was drawn.  “Sire—Wardens—thank you for coming, but—surely there is something that could be done?”   Her voice failed her briefly and she made a choking noise.  “I’m sorry.  I just—I’m so afraid that Albert is going to die and leave me alone, and I can’t move him on my own.  The Templars won’t help me.”

“I’m afraid we have to respect the Revered Mother’s wishes,” Kathil said.  “But if you want to bring him out—Alistair?  I think two or three of your guard might be able to get in and out without incurring the wrath of the good priest.  I’d hoped to see the others while we were in there, but...”  She made a helpless gesture, mouth twisting sourly.  “I won’t force the issue.  The Templars may also help you move him, now that the fragility of the Veil within the city has been brought to the Revered Mother’s attention.”

“Give the Revered Mother a bit to recover from the fit our visit has probably given her,” Alistair said.  “I’ll send some of my guard for you and your husband in, say, an hour or so.”

Delilah paled briefly, but recovered and dropped an awkward curtsy, the movement of a woman who’d been born to nobility but who hadn’t needed to use most of those graces for years.  “Sire.  Thank you.”  She backed away and slipped back through the doors of the chantry.

Kathil turned and started walking towards the stairs.  “Alistair, I’d like you to take Delilah and Albert back to the Vigil with you when you head back to Denerim.  We won’t be able to take them—we have to go to the Blackmarsh before we go to the keep.”

 _This is the first I’ve heard of that._  “The Blackmarsh?” Jowan asked.  “Why?”

She averted her eyes; it was answer enough.  “Had a tip that there are some strange goings-on there, and Justice has mentioned that the Veil was badly torn there recently,” she said after a moment.  She shifted Cerys in her arms.  The infant was fisting her hands on the edge of Kathil’s cuirass.  “I like to keep an eye on places like that when I can.”

 _And I wonder what’s waiting on the other side of the Veil that you’re not mentioning._

They returned to the camp outside the gates.  There was a fresh crowd of people waiting at the gates themselves; word was spreading that the King was in Amaranthine, and farmholders were making the trip in to gawk at their monarch for themselves.  Jowan was never comfortable with crowds.  In his experience, they all too easily turned into mobs.

He slipped off to the back side of the Redcliffe camp; some of the soldiers were filling in one of the latrine trenches and digging a new one, and he joined in.  He headed back to his little tent, and realized that someone had pitched another one right next to his.  It was in the only relatively clear space in the camp that wasn’t being used for some other purpose, true, but with a sense of unease he realized who the tent must have been put up for.

Emerging from the flap was proof that he was correct.  Delilah Howe straightened and stretched, one hand on her lower back, and saw Jowan.  “I suppose we’re neighbors,” she said, and gave him a weak smile.  “The Commander says that the King will transport us back to Vigil’s Keep in a few days.”

Jowan nodded.  “I’m sure Nathaniel will be happy to see you, and we have one of the best healers outside the Circle Tower at the keep.  Though I’m sure Kathil and I will take a look at your husband in a bit.”

Her smile was more genuine this time, and it lit her storm-grey eyes.  She would have been pretty, if her face hadn’t been so drawn and worried-looking.  “I was so afraid, when the Revered Mother turned you away...”  She trailed off.  “Is it true?  What she said about you?”

He’d almost forgotten that he didn’t actually have _maleficar_ branded across his forehead.  It only felt like it, most days.  “One of my schools is blood, yes.  But I’m a Warden, first and foremost, and I haven’t made any deals with demons.”   _Unlike, say, the Hero of Ferelden._

Oddly enough, it looked for a moment like she might even believe him.  “I see.  And...you have healing skills?”

“Some, yes.”  He hesitated—how much to say about Anders?  He didn’t like the man, but he _was_ a good healer.  “There’s a Warden at Vigil’s Keep who will be able to do more.”

Delilah raked her hair out of her eyes with one hand.  “Albert is sleeping right now.  He seemed to be less feverish as soon as he was carried out of the chantry.  Do you think—”

The rest of her question was lost forever as a scream cut through the hubbub of the camp, and all eyes turned towards the source.  Near one of the cook fires, a woman with light hair stood with her hands clamped over her mouth, staring down at a body at her feet.  A body wearing very familiar dark armor, a shield emblazoned with the Warden griffin on it.

Justice.

“Stay here,” Jowan said to Delilah, and started towards the woman.  Kathil and Cullen were coming through the crowd as well, the Mabari at their heels.  

As Jowan pulled up, he could see the woman was sobbing.  “Kristoff...Ah, _Maker_ , he just _fell_...”  She shuddered.

Cullen said, “You knew his name, before.  You must be Kristoff’s wife.  What happened?”

“My name is Aura, yes.  I...I heard that the Wardens were here, so I came to see if Kristoff—what used to be Kristoff—his body—”  The woman choked.  “I just got here, he seemed to recognize me.  I almost turned around...”  She looked down at the armor-clad body.  Justice was sprawled face-down, the palm of one hand turned upward as if in supplication  “He just...smiled at me, and said, ‘Now I see’.  And fell down.”  She fisted her hands, pressed them against her chest.  “I...I wanted to say goodbye.  I am taking ship tomorrow, back to Orlais.  But—I never—”

Kathil was silent, staring down at the body at their feet, a peculiar look of sorrow on her face.  Cullen glanced at her, then reached out to rest a hand on Aura’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.  “Take some time, we’ll prepare...er...the body.  Think about whether you want to take him back to Orlais, or if you want him buried here.”

“He should be buried here,” Aura said.  She swayed on her feet.  “He would have wanted that.  Please...I should sit down...”

Cullen moved towards Aura, but it was Kathil who caught the woman as she began to crumple.  She transferred Aura’s sagging body to Cullen’s arms.  “You two find a place for Aura to recover.  I’ll see to the body.”  Her voice was rough-edged in a way Jowan had heard it just once before—the day they learned that Sati had died.  

In the tumult that followed, with an argument about whether it could be properly called a funeral if there wasn’t a priest and where exactly they were going to bury the body that Justice had occupied, as Aura sobbed in confusion and grief—her husband was dead, had been dead for half a year, and today she had lost him once more—Jowan tried to be helpful, awkwardly comforted Aura, helped dig the grave in the field just outside the walls where soldiers were buried.  

 _The law may be unjust.  Justice may be unlawful._

Jowan wondered who the spirit had been speaking to, just then.

And why.

*****

 _Zevran:_

Of course, the horse went lame.

Zevran’s luck had largely been holding, but it had never extended to horses, carriages, and the like.  He was forced to leave the poor creature at an isolated farmhold with some payment for its care and a promise that the creature would eventually be collected by someone from Vigil’s Keep.  It took him five days to get to Amaranthine, traveling rough and light and often late into the night.  There was something hard and hot in his chest, and it took him some time to realize that he was—it was strange— _lonely_.  He missed his family, and his tiny, vulnerable daughter.

His ankle was twinging as he walked, worse in the cold mornings.  He made himself cups of willowbark tea on the nights he had a fire and tried to ignore it.  

He’d hoped to have a chance to make himself presentable before looking for his family.  But as he came up the hill and the walls of Amaranthine came into view, a certain Templar was at the edge of the fence that marked the edge of the refugee camp huddled outside the walls.

It was only a few moments later that Zevran found himself being caught up in a rough, almost desperate hug.  “Thank the _Maker_ you’re back,” Cullen said, and kissed him.

A few moments later, Zevran regained enough awareness to reflect that he was _quite_ glad to be here.  “I take it you missed me?” he murmured, conscious of dozens of curious eyes turned their way.  

“Could say that,” Cullen said, grinning as he released Zevran.  “Now that you’re back, we can _leave_.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “We are in that much of a hurry?”

Cullen nodded and picked up Zevran’s pack from where he’d dropped it.  “Kathil and the Revered Mother are having a standoff.  There’s quite the betting pool on who attacks the other first.  Once Alistair left—three days ago now—the Templars started sitting at the edge of the Redcliffe camp.  Watching.  It’s been...unnerving.”  They were passing between tents now, dodging around men and women hauling baskets and bags.  “Justice is gone.  Alistair had to leave, and he took his guard with him.  Leliana’s only just now been able to walk a little, but she’s managed to talk the Redcliffe guard into keeping watch for us.  But now you’re here, we can leave.”

“Back to Vigil’s Keep?” Zevran asked.

“To the Blackmarsh.  Southeast.”  Cullen caught Zevran’s look and shook his head slightly.  Ah.  It was one of _those_ things, was it?

His Warden, when they found her, was attempting to console a wailing infant.  Leliana sat nearby, one leg splinted and bound.  Three Redcliffe guards were nearby, far enough to not be obtrusive but near enough to be handy in case of trouble.

Kathil turned, bouncing Cerys, and caught sight of him.  For a moment, she stood stunned, as if she had been partially convinced that he had been a figment of her imagination all along.  Then she smiled, and the light came into her eyes, and she was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

It was his day for being embraced as if he were a rope tossed to a drowning swimmer.  Kathil was less rough, but only because she had Cerys in one arm.  Her hand fisted around his weapon harness, she kissed him soundly and then simply stood, holding onto him.  Cerys squirmed violently, her face screwed up, but ceased crying for the moment.

“I have returned, yes?” he said, somewhat unnecessarily.  “Safe and sound, and successful.”

“And _late_.”  She kissed him again and released him, shifting Cerys.  “You were supposed to be here days ago.”

“Horse trouble.”  He smiled at her, and was pleased to see the corner of her mouth twitch upward.  Ah, he was not in so very much trouble, then.  The annoyance covered worry, he knew.  “I am given to understand that we must be on our way, yes?”

“Yes.”  Kathil glanced down at Cerys, moved her to lie against her chest with her head on her shoulder  “The situation here has gotten...”  She trailed off as she closed her eyes, the strain clearly showing on her features.

“Complicated?” he suggested.  She nodded.  “Well.  Do I have time to bathe before we flee?  The road rather lacked most of the niceties.  Or even the basics, truly.”

“Give Cerys to me,” Leliana said.  “Zevran, you and I must have a discussion, but later.”  She gave him a sly look.  “Go, we will pack, yes?”

An hour later, he had washed, and had also witnessed the presence of the Templars of Our Lady Redeemer for himself.  The Revered Mother led a service as he walked by, lecturing about the dangers of maleficarum.  Her voice was clear, and carried well.

He supposed she had been at that for days.  No wonder tempers in the camp were frayed and near snapping.  All of his questions—what had happened to Leliana, why precisely they were going to somewhere called the Blackmarsh, what had happened to the dead but still lively Grey Warden who went by Justice—all those things could wait.

He was met at the edge of the Redcliffe camp by Lorn, who had evidently been sent to collect him.  “You have been keeping an eye on your mistress for me, have you not?”  Lorn gave a low woof and a brief wag, an affirmative if Zevran had ever seen one.  Zevran followed the dog to the edge of the Redcliffe camp, where his companions awaited.

They had a mule and a cart, Leliana sitting perched on a pile of packs in it.  She waved at him, and smiled.  “And there he is, all pretty once more.”  The Tevinter child—what was her name again? Ah, yes, Murena—was crouched beneath the cart, peering out from between the wheel spokes.  Lorn went to her and nuzzled her ear, and the child giggled.  “Come, throw your things in here with me.  Kathil and Cullen, they refuse to let me walk to the Blackmarsh, and I refused to let them send me back to Vigil’s Keep with Alistair, so we have come up with a compromise.”

He did so, settling his pack in corner of the cart.  The mule’s ear twitched at him.  “Speaking of the Wardens—”

“On their way,” Leliana replied.  “They wished to speak with the captain of the Redcliffe guard.  I am afraid the Revered Mother has decided that her quarrel with Kathil extends to them as well.”  She sighed.  “ _I_ would have been able to make her see reason, but at the time I was forbidden to stand, much less walk into Amaranthine.”

He pointed his chin at her knee.  “What happened?”

“A great lout of a supposed bandit with a hammer happened,” she said.  “We were attacked on the way to Amaranthine—but, ah, that is a story for another time, when there are not so many ears nearby.  And besides, here are our Wardens, ready for travel.”

Zevran turned.  Kathil and Cullen were indeed making their way through the camp, Jowan trailing behind them with Cerys in her sling.  Cullen was in armor, Kathil and Jowan in shabby traveling clothes.  It appeared they were not going to be advertising the presence of mages in their little traveling party for the moment.  

Fiann ran up to Zevran, butting her head against his hip and trying to lick his hands.  “I am glad to see you too,” he said, amused.  “So, shall we away?”

There was a squeak from around the vicinity of his knees; Murena peered out from beneath the cart, Lorn still trying to lick her ear.  The girl emerged and went to take the mule’s lead rope as Cullen came forward to embrace Zevran.

“You smell better now,” Cullen said.   _Ah,_ it was good to be here, after days spent on the road that had been an unwelcome reminder of parts of Zevran’s life he would prefer to forget.  “Makes me wish we didn’t have to be off again so quickly.”

Kathil slipped in on Zevran’s other side, the sharp scent of her skin familiar and welcome.  They stood in that three-way embrace for a moment, and Zevran knew his tardiness was forgiven.  Then they parted, and began to walk towards the Blackmarsh.

Once they were clear of Amaranthine, Zevran was filled in on everything that had happened while they had been parted, from the bandit attack and the suspicion of who was truly behind it to Kathil’s confrontation with the Revered Mother.  The story of Justice’s ending was told by Jowan, who had of them all seen the most of it.  Kathil, during the story, looked troubled, but did not speak.  He could well imagine that losing one of those in her command would bother her.  He knew, as most did not, that her original disappearance had been precipitated not only by Alistair's wedding but by a Joining gone disastrously wrong.

He didn’t think any of them had truly understood Justice, but he had been in Kathil’s command, and that he was gone was a loss for the order.

Around them, the green blush of spring that had been creeping over the land was intensifying, darkening.  “And you were successful?” Kathil asked him just after they forded a muddy rivulet swollen with recent rain.  

“It was a terrible tragedy.”  He gestured with one hand to indicate _the world is a strange and twisted place, is it not?_  He had Cerys in her sling.  He had missed her with a strange and urgent impatience, and now that he was back he was loath to let her go for very long. “Lady Packton visited her young lover on her way home.  Who knew that she had a bad heart?  Her exertions with her paramour _quite_ undid her.”

Kathil made a choked sound.  “You _didn’t._  Well, I suppose I said I didn’t care how it happened, didn’t I?”

“You did.”  He eyed her.  “You are troubled?”

She’d gone reflective, her eyes absently searching the scrub at the side of the road.  “I feel sorry for the person who woke up to a cold body and no explanations.  Are you sure he didn’t see anything?”

“He was sleeping like a babe in arms, my Warden.”  He glanced down at Cerys, who was napping in the sling.  “As far as he or anyone should ever realize, her death was natural.  I am _very_ good at my job.”

“You are, at that.  And Liza Packton is no longer a threat.  Without her needling and the leadership of one of the banns who were involved in an assassination attempt on Laurens, the rest will fall into line at least long enough for Varel and I to stabilize the arling.”  She glanced at him, and frowned.  “Are you limping?”

“It has been a long few days, full of walking, no?”  He shrugged.  “The ankle will improve with some rest.”

Kathil gestured at the cart, which as rumbling and bumping along ahead of them.  “I think you’re riding with Leliana the rest of the way to the Blackmarsh.  Cullen!  Hold up!”

He was rather unceremoniously bundled into the cart next to Leliana.  It was not a _large_ cart, as such, and the quarters were quite tight.  He rode facing Leliana, their legs arranged so they didn’t quite overlap, Cerys on his lap.  “And has Kathil mentioned to you _why_ we are going to the Blackmarsh?” he asked.

Leliana shrugged one shoulder and waved a hand at Kathil, who was walking next to Cullen and Jowan, involved in conversation.  “Something about there being something waiting for us there, but she wouldn’t say what, precisely.”  She leaned over the edge of the cart.  “Murena, tell me three things you’ve noticed in the last thousand paces.”

The girl looked back at them, curls mussed by the freshening breeze.  She was still leading the mule, having taken charge of it the moment they had left Amaranthine.  “Animal tracks leadin’ right, through the scrub.  White rocks piled up, three piles, two on the left, one on the right, maybe marking trails?”  She paused, and pursed her lips.  “An’ the mule keeps breaking wind.”

“Very good on the last, but I meant things about our surroundings, yes?” Leliana said.  There was amusement in the way she narrowed her light eyes.

“Well, the _smell_ is all around us.”  The girl sighed and kicked at a rock lying in the road.  “Birds.  Three different kinds.  One little, in the...little trees?”  She peered at Leliana.

“Bushes, my dear.  They are called bushes.”

Murena nodded sharply.  “One big and black overhead.  One singin’, not seein’.”  

“Very good.”  Leliana sounded well-pleased.  Murena grinned and pulled forward a bit on the lead rope.  The mule made an aggrieved sigh, but picked up her pace.  Cerys was gnawing contentedly on the knuckle of Zevran’s index finger, a thoughtful look on her face.  Her eyes were lightening a bit, he saw.  She’d been born with eyes almost as dark as her mother’s, but he thought he could see flecks of grey and brown in them now.  

The road rolled past.  Zevran settled back with his daughter on his lap and wondered what demons were waiting for them in the Blackmarsh.

*****

 _Cullen:_

The Veil here felt...strange.

He had felt it from miles away, and now they were past the border of the Blackmarsh the unsettling feeling of the Veil roiling was omnipresent and refused to be ignored.  He stomach tried to flip over, and he swallowed.

“Are you all right?” Jowan asked.  “This place is...”

“An old road,” Kathil said.  “A _dangerous_ old road.  More dangerous than most.”  She sounded uneasy.  “I can feel whatever is living here without even trying.”  She paused, looking puzzled.  “It feels—familiar.  I can’t say why.”

Fiann, ahead of them, gave a single bark.  People ahead, said that wagging tail.  Then she circled back around to press her shoulder into Cullen’s thigh.  

“People _live_ in this?” Jowan said.  He glanced over his shoulder.  “Maker’s _Breath_.”

“I feel little,” Leliana said from her perch in the cart.  “A sense that we are being watched.  People without sensitivity to the Veil might feel nothing at all.”

“Maker forbid any of them have mage children.”  Kathil drew a sharp breath.  She was carrying Cerys in the sling, letting her nap after her last meal.  “Let’s go see if we can find out if they’ve been having monster trouble.”  They started forward, the familiar creak and rumble of the cart counterpointed by the sound of their feet.

Lorn whined, and cocked his head.  Then he bolted forward, tail flailing.  The healer-mage!  The healer was _here_!

Cullen saw the blood drain from Kathil’s cheeks as she stopped still.  “Oh, _no_ —”

But before he could do more than wonder, a form coalesced ahead of them.  

Lorn bounded up to the form, which resolved into a woman wearing mage robes who dropped to one knee to greet the Mabari.  She murmured something, too quiet for Cullen to hear, but her voice was familiar.

“Wynne,” Kathil said, almost a moan.

Lorn barked, bowing in front of Wynne’s image, then bounced around in what looked like sheer joy.  Wynne smiled, and—

 _Right._

He had almost forgotten.

The clench of an unnamable something around his stomach had nothing to do with the way the Veil billowed and shuddered and everything to do with the fact that his dead mother was standing in front of them.

“A demon?” he heard Zevran ask.

“Look how Lorn is acting,” Leliana replied.  “Andraste have mercy.  It’s her.”

She walked towards them, her skin losing the luminescence of the Fade, as if reality were seeping into her body.  Wynne looked younger than Cullen remembered.  Her braided hair was ginger streaked with white, her skin clear and unlined.  She stopped about five yards distant, and studied all of them briefly.  “I know this is a shock.”  Her voice was like ice sliding down Cullen’s spine.  “I had no way to send a message, but you are here anyway.  Which likely means that _someone_ has meddled.”

Kathil found her voice.  “Wynne, you—what are you _doing_ here?”

“Ah.  As to that...”  She spread her hands.  “The demon who held this place left a vacancy behind, and I thought that my presence would be less malevolent than that of anything else that might be attracted to a place such as this.  In time, the Veil will strengthen, but it will take a very long time, and the process is fragile.  A mage casting a spell without proper precaution, a Templar trying to strengthen the Veil with too heavy a hand, any of it will set the process back years.”  She looked at Cullen, and her eyes softened.  “Touching the mortal world has also become a habit, of sorts.  When the Veil at the Circle Tower was closed, I wished to find another place.”

Lorn came to Kathil, and she dropped one hand to his back.  “I have to ask.   _Are_ you Wynne?  Or are you just something that looks and sounds like Wynne?”

Wynne folded her arms.  Cullen realized that he wanted her to say _yes_ , give them an unambiguous answer.  Instead, she shook her head, slowly.  “It is complicated, little one.  And in truth, I am not sure I know the answer.  What makes a soul?  I have all of Wynne’s memories, my hopes, dreams, fears.  But I am also...not what I was.  Touching the mortal realm keeps the part of me that is Wynne alive.  I cannot escape the conviction that I am both Wynne and the spirit that sustained me for so long.”

“That’s a bit like what the despair demon said about you,” Kathil said.  “I wondered why she never took your form, but she only takes the form of the dead to us, doesn’t she?  And you’re...not.”

“Nor truly alive, but somewhere in between.”  Her expression darkened.  “You keep terrible company, little one.  Moros is the _very_ last citizen of the Fade that a mortal should get involved with.  You may think you know her, but I assure you that you do _not_.”

“I’ve made a mistake or three in my time,” Kathil said.  “Her name is Moros, then?”

Wynne nodded.  “Despair, Suffering, Inevitability, Fate.  She embodies all of them, and there are few more powerful.  But that is a discussion for another time.”  She drew a shaking breath, and looked at Cullen.  He was standing frozen, his hands gone numb.  “I am sorry.”  Her voice broke.  “I wanted to tell you.  I fought with Greagoir and Irving over it.  They both argued against it, saying that it would only wound you, confuse you, make you doubt your commitment to the Chantry.  I ended up leaving the Tower for a few years.  Traveling, until my heart was strong enough to wall away the secret.”

“You knew who I was?”  His voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away.  

She closed her eyes, bowed her head.  “I knew the moment you walked in the door as a Templar initiate.”  Then she straightened, and took a startled breath in.  “Someone is coming,” she said, and vanished.

Cullen blinked, tried to swallow.  A man came around the turn in the path ahead, and waved at them.  It seemed to take him a moment to take them in—there are a nervous glance at the armor and swords they bore—but then he spied Murena leading the mule and Cerys on Zevran’s lap in the cart, and he relaxed.  Cullen supposed that bandits didn’t generally travel with children.

It turned out that Jerem was the ostensible leader of the new settlement that was springing up in the Blackmarsh.  They were rebuilding tumbledown houses, fishing in the lake, planting gardens, and avoiding the old manor house where the demon had made its home for so long.  

It was all cold mud and colder lakewater, and the buzz of the Veil’s wounds on Cullen’s senses, but the place had potential.  It was a far cry from what Jerem told them that night about how the Blackmarsh had once been, all too recently.  

On the way into the village, they passed a partially constructed dragon skeleton, supported by wooden scaffolding.  Piles of additional bones lay nearby, sorted by size and shape.  The skull’s empty eye sockets stared down at them as they passed.  “We’ve got a scholar here, studying the place,” Jerem told them.  They were huddled in the kitchen of one of the few houses with a roof in the village, crouched close to the hearth.  “He’s working on stringing together a complete dragon skeleton.  He’s making a study of the bones, you see.”

“It seems like asking for trouble, somehow,” Kathil said with a frown.  She had Cerys at the breast, and the firelight over her face made the hollows under her eyes apparent.  Cerys had been fussy for the last few days.  She didn’t seem to be ill, just louder than usual.  “I’m not sure how smart dragons are, but if one passes by and sees it, it might take offense.”

“Or they might be frightened away by their bony cousin, yes?” Zevran said.  

“You can ask the scholar about it,” Jerem told them.  “He’ll be by tomorrow morning.”

“And you have no problems with monsters?  How about darkspawn?”  Kathil shifted Cerys to her shoulder and started rubbing her back as the infant fussed sleepily.

“Just the occasional blight wolf, and by the time they make it here they seem like they’re slowly starving to death.”  He stooped by the hearth and wrapped a cloth around the kettle handle.  “This was a good place once.  I think we can make it one again.  Winter doesn’t last forever, after all.”

Leliana stirred.  “I like that hope.  It is a nice change, in this country full of pessimists.”  In response to Kathil’s look, she shrugged.  “I know, I know, the Blight, the occupation, the rebellion.  Fereldans are good at grim determination.  But hope?  Hope is more difficult, I think.”

“You hang around with Grey Wardens, my dear,” Kathil said.  “It’s a rather skewed perspective on things.  Now, is someone willing to take this child for a bit while I have some of that tea that Jerem is making?”

Cullen rose.  “I will.  I want to go get some fresh air anyway.”

She handed the baby to him with a small smile.  “You’re getting heavy, baby girl,” he told her.  He wrapped her up and took her outside, into the chilly spring night.  Fiann padded along next to him, looking up and cocking her ears.  

“We’re not going far,” he told her.  “Just to sit outside for a little bit.”

Cerys was heavy in his arms, and though he could see her nose wrinkle in the flickering light cast by the torches, she didn’t start crying.  She was already so much bigger than she had been when she was born, and it seemed like every time he looked at her she had changed subtly.  He eased himself down onto a rickety bench, and Fiann laid down at his feet.

The silence lengthened, grew expectant.  He jumped when a splash nearby announced the presence of some night-roaming animal.   This place smelled strange—neither pleasant nor unpleasant, a subtle fecundity that he assumed would be far stronger when it was warmer.  Cerys wrapped a hand around his index finger and muttered.

“So this is my granddaughter, is it?”

He looked up.  Wynne stood there, arms folded, looking...uncomfortable.  The light was fading from her skin.  “It is,” he said.  “Do you want to see?”

Because right now, it was important that he act like all of this was _normal_.  Even if it wasn’t.  At his feet Fiann flicked an ear back and forth, expressing cautious interest in the healer-mage.  

Wynne nodded, and he turned Cerys so Wynne could see her.  “Three months old in a week or two,” he said.  “And we’ve already had two attempts by the Chantry to take her away.”

“I assumed.”  Wynne reached out a hand, and brushed a hand over Cerys’s cheek.  The baby made a gurgle and reached for Wynne, dark eyes wide and interested.  This close to Wynne, Cullen could almost feel the chill of her, the hair-raising tingle of the Fade at the back of his neck.  “It’s important that the Chantry not get ahold of her, Cullen.  But I imagine that you know that, don’t you?”

“For any reason other than the fact that Kathil would start killing Templars and not stop until they gave her back?” he asked.  “And Zevran and I would help.”  He was a little breathless, making that statement, realizing the truth of it.  

Fiann, at his feet, sniffed the hem of Wynne’s robes.  Then she began to wag, her expression relaxing.   The healer-mage is strange, said the tilt of her head.  But she smells kind.

“That’s some of it.”  Wynne straightened.  “And when humans despair, Moros has power.  But...the Chantry is not universally made up of well-meaning people, Cullen.  The priests are humans as much as the Templars are.  And it owns some very bad places.  Not all children of mages are taken to a little village to be raised.”  Her gaze was fixed on Cullen’s face.  “Some are taken to the Aeonar, if their parents are judged to be dangerous enough.  Children taken to the Aeonar do not survive, Cullen.  Even if creatures that gather at the Aeonar do not take them, the priests...leave the babies alone.  They do not touch them except to feed them and keep them clean, and they do not speak to them..  They believe that one day, one of these children will survive, and when that child speaks it will sing in a language that will travel directly to the Maker’s ear.  The babies die, from lack of love.”

He realized that he was cradling Cerys protectively against his chest.  “How do you know this?”

“All mortal knowledge is available if you can learn to listen to dreams.”  Her expression was closed, betraying nothing.  “And it’s only due to Greagoir’s intervention that you did not die there.  He became Knight-Commander just before you were born, discovered what was to happen, and interfered.”

“You were thought to be dangerous,” he said.  

She laughed a little.  “I would not tell anyone who your father was, and I was a very angry woman.  Nearly mad, if I were to be honest.  But in the end, the Tower was all I had.  It was home and family, employment and purpose.  And despite everything, I still believed in Andraste and her mission.”

Cerys squirmed against Cullen’s chest.  He forced himself to relax, shifted her so that she was lying in his arms.  “Do you know if Cerys will be a mage?” he asked, both eager for and dreading the answer.

Wynne shook her head.  “There is no telling.  Perhaps in a few years...but even then, nothing is certain until a child mage casts their first spell.  Magic runs strongly in her mother’s bloodline.  I would not be surprised, either way.”

“Ah.”  He looked down at Cerys, who was rubbing her eyes fitfully.   _I wish I could have known who you were, when I was younger._  He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.  He had been so good at wrapping up that pain and hiding it away that it refused to be spoken of, even now.  

Sometimes, there was no speaking a secret at all.

When he looked up again, Wynne was gone.  He ignored the stab of disappointment in his chest and rose.  He’d take Cerys inside, and hope that she might sleep at least for a few hours.  They would be bunking in the little kitchen tonight.  There would be no privacy whatsoever, another disappointment.

 _There is time,_ he reminded himself, and took his daughter indoors.

*****

 _Wynne:_

How could it possibly be that the child she had given birth to was a man grown, with a daughter of his own?  Hadn’t it been just the other day that she’d felt the quickening of another life inside of her body?  Everything had changed, that day.  Wynne had been so young, and had thought herself so sophisticated and wise. 

She’d been wrong, of course.  

But now—look at Cullen!  It had been years since she’d had a chance to really _look_ at him.  He was off the lyrium, and a Grey Warden.   _We did all right,_ she whispered to her memory of Greagoir.   _As young and foolish as we were, we made a fine son between us._

She roved Forever-winter, just this side of the Veil from the Blackmarsh, the gentle touch of the warming waters belying the name of this district, her home.  A fragile home, it was, but there were good people coming to live here.  

Wynne would care for them, and with any luck she would get to see her granddaughter grow into a woman.

She felt the presence of Moros before she saw her, a pressure on her mind, a stirring in the waters of the Fade that heralded her presence.  She stood still, reading the currents.  

“Am I not kind?” came the voice of Moros, from everywhere and nowhere.  “Am I not benevolent?  I bring to you your family, little Faith.  I bring to you the son your mortal vessel lost.  I bring to you the Thrice-bound, and her mates.”

Wynne turned.  Moros had Fade-waters eddying around her feet as if she were wading, and where she stepped the water tuned to blood.  She was pale hair and paler skin, devouring black eyes, red lips.  “What do you want, Moros?” Wynne asked, keeping her voice neutral.

“Merely to visit with my friend, and see her demesne.  I love a good reunion, don’t you?”  She gestured negligently with one hand.  “Besides, I am eager to see how the next act of our little challenge plays out.  You are about to have visitors, little Faith.  I wonder what you will do.  If you do anything at all.”

Alarmed, Wynne reached a tendril of awareness towards the roots of Forever-winter, extended it to the Veil.  It was delicate as a spider’s web at dawn, and it trembled where mortals stepped.

Mortals.   _Many_ mortals, slipping along the byways of the Blackmarsh.  Some of them with the distinctive feel of Templars.

Movement was merely a matter of thought, and Wynne was pressed against the Veil, watching.  Men and a few women, all in armor, all armed.  It was a clear night, moonlight making stark shadows beneath the trees.

This could not stand.

She would not allow it.

There was not much she could do without damaging the Veil more than it already was.  She considered her options, and chose the least of the evils.  

Thought was action, and Wynne was no stranger to battle.

*****

 _Lorn:_

The healer-mage is here, but not here.  

It is very strange, how she simply _appears_ as if she was always there.  Humans don’t usually do that, unless they are his human, who occasionally does something similar.  

He is lying across the doorway of the little kitchen, gnawing on a most excellent bone that Fiann has brought him.  Fiann is asleep and snoring, her own bone clasped between her front paws.  Lorn is keeping watch.  This is one of _those_ places, those places where the things that are only part shadow hunt.  He must stay watchful.

Instead of the shadows, though, the healer-mage is here.  She smells like bitter herbs and forge-flame.  If she had sensible ears, they would be flattened against her head.  Something is wrong, and he remembers this.  

They have done this before, after all.

“Lorn,” she says.  “Rouse Kathil.  Quickly, quietly.  There are men coming, many of them.  I will hold them off, but she must be away before they find her and Cullen and the rest.”

He whuffs softly and the healer-mage is gone.  But Lorn knows what he must do, and the air that flows under the door brings with it the smell of steel and sweat and something sour and foul.  His human calls that smell _righteousness_.  He thinks that is perhaps not the right word, but he knows no better one.

The growl in his chest rises and thrums, and his human wakes.

There is no sleepy blinking, no yawns.  She is simply awake and looking at him.  

Men coming.  Armor, swords... _knights_.

One scratch on the floorboards with a heavy paw, and there is a moment when human-mind and Mabari-mind are in communion.  She understands.  

They must run.

His human’s elf wakes, and the dust-knight, and the rest.  They are swift and silent, donning armor in haste, shouldering packs.  “Lorn, lead us out,” his human says. her hand on his shoulder.  “Show us a clear path.”

But there _is_ no clear path.

The smell and sound of knights is all around them, and the air has gone slick and trembling.  The only direction where there are no knights is into the lake behind them, and the human pups cannot swim.

The healer-mage said _run_ but Lorn’s heart says _fight_ , and he pauses, trying to make the two agree somehow.  

There is a creak and clatter from by the town gates, and a flash of something white in the moonlight.  Dust and bone.  There were _excellent_ bones, by the gates.  Some of them piled up for the taking, but others somehow cunningly strung together.  A dragon _made_ of bones—most of one, at least.

It was the most wonderful thing he has seen in some time.  

(Think of all of the _chewing_.  And the _gnawing_.  And how very _long_ it would take him to dismantle it, bone by bone!)

And now, it is moving.

It twitches and something cracks, and then the whole thing shudders and it breaks free.  Something dark flies by it; an arrowhead makes a brief ringing sound and bounces off.  

The bone dragon spreads incomplete wings and begins to attack.

“Jowan, _don’t_ ,” Lorn hears his human say.  “No magic.  We can’t risk it.”

“No magic?  What do you call _that_ , then?”

“On our side.  I hope.”  The dragon surges forward, and Lorn’s human lays her hand on his shoulder.  

Dragons scream when they’re attacking, but this one clatters.  It snaps its jaw at a knight, who jumps away.  Lorn understands this game; it is called _distraction_ and _keepaway_.  The dragon made of bone is a large thing, and dangerous, and the knights are moving to attack it.  Their line becomes ragged and disappears as they clump.  

The bone dragon clatters towards the knights, ignoring sword-blows and arrows, and the way is clear.

He surges ahead, Fiann beside him, and his human behind him.  The dust-knight is carrying the singer, who has a hurt leg and cannot run.  They move, quickly, and Lorn picks a path that will take them through shadow.  The bone dragon is making scraping, clattering noises, and Lorn understands this as part of the distraction.  

One knight, too near, turns towards them, and before his human can ask Lorn is on the knight, tearing an unprotected throat, blood hot on his tongue.  Fiann takes over the lead as Lorn makes sure of the knight, who did not even have a chance to scream.  His people move past them, into the swamp-smelling dark.  The knight quivers and stops moving.

He kicks dirt at the body and runs to catch up.

They move through the night, dropping to a fast walk and then a slower one, but always, always staying in motion.  They pass from the place where the shadows hunt to one that feels more solid.  He thinks they will stop, but they do not.

They keep moving until dawn comes.  Lorn’s human calls a halt and a rest; they will catch their breath and move on.  All of them are tired, even Lorn.  The singer’s pup slumps against a tree trunk, her eyes closed.  Lorn’s human comes to him, kneels down, ruffles his ears.  “Good dog,” is all she says.  He leans into her hands that smell of dust and lightning.

Yes.  He is.

Her pup is asleep in the cloth she uses as a substitute for carrying the pup by the scruff of the neck.  (He is given to understand that one does not pick up human pups that way.)  He noses the pup, gently, breathing in milk-scent and young-thing-smell.  The trouble is somehow connected with the pup, is all he understands.  But his human is fierce, fiercer than anything, fiercer even than Lorn when it comes to protecting her pup.

This too he understands: that his human will do what she must in order to protect her pup, and her pack.  For they have a pack, now—his human’s elf and her dust-knight and Fiann, the mouse-mage and the singer, the singer’s pup.  Back at Lorn’s new territory, there is the thorntree-dwarf and the old warrior who smells like tapestries and honey, and so many others.  It is a good pack, he thinks.  Even if the carrion-knight is gone, there are many still remaining.

“We’re going home,” she says, her voice soft and inexorable.  “And then we’ll decide what to do.  Because by the _Maker_ I am Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and the Chantry _will_ recognize that fact and call off its dogs.  There is no excuse for this.”

He licks her hand.  Home, then, to their big den made of stone.  Then they will teach the ones that pursue them that they are _not_ to be trifled with.  

He drifts off for a bit then, his human’s hands touch his hot and sore paws, a cool prickling coming from her fingers.  In his dreams, he and his human walk thousands of roads and never stop, always and ever onward.

 

*****

 _Now that my ladder's gone,_   
_I must lie down where all my ladders start,_   
_In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart._

 _-Yeats_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> ...so much for getting out another chapter quickly, eh? My life has become rather busy and is likely to stay so for the foreseeable future, and with DA2 coming out soon updates are likely to become even more sporadic than they already are. But do not fear, my ducks, I will finish this story. We have about eight chapters left. I think. (Kathil et al often have ideas of what path their story is going to take that differ from mine.) I’m also in the middle of a rewrite on Waking Hours, and I have three more standalones that are in line to be written.
> 
> I’m kind of hoping to get another chapter out by the time DA2 comes out, but we’ll see, eh? :)


	9. The Shattered Rose

 

 

_For they die, those toothsome children,_

_and it is with us they stay.  They cry within the dry stone,_

_they rise with the floodwaters and press their hands_

_  
_

_against the Veil._

 _  
_

 

 

 

 _—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza six: of the Harrowed_

 

* * *

 

 _Kathil:_

Anders had her chin in one hand, moving her head to and fro.  “Really, Kathil.  This is _normal_ for you?  Your neck—”

“Is as fine as it ever is.” Kathil’s eyes felt gritty and dry, her hips were aching abominably, and she had been summarily marched into the infirmary upon their arrival at the Vigil and told that she was going to get checked out without delay.  Protesting that she was just tired—they were _all_ tired, they had been at a forced march for three days with little rest and no sleep—had done no good.  “I’m all right.  Leliana needs your attention more than I do.”

Anders blew out a breath and let go of her chin.  “I’m doing the small things first, and that includes checking out all of you before I start working on Leliana.  That knee of hers is going to take some doing, though it’s a lot better than it could have been.  You didn’t do a half bad job putting it back together, but it’s complicated by the previous injury to the knee.”

She frowned.  “What previous injury?”

“She broke the kneecap sometime in the past.  I could feel where it had healed together, though it was a little...strange.  I didn’t want to wake her to ask her about it.”  Leliana had fallen asleep as soon as they’d brought her into the infirmary and laid her down.  She had alternated between determinedly hobbling and being carried by Cullen or Jowan or very occasionally Zevran—she was too tall for Kathil to manage with any comfort, even pickaback.

Kathil checked her annoyance, shoving it down where all the nasty and brutish impulses lived in her soul.  “The hammer shattered the kneecap, cracked the head of the bone of the lower leg, disconnected a bunch of ligaments, and tore the muscle of her thigh partially away from its mooring.”

Anders was staring at her.  “What?  Unless you’ve been taking lessons while I’ve had my back turned, there is no way you got her from that state to what I saw just now.  You slept through your classes with Wynne, I am given to understand.”  He frowned.  “Though now that you mention it, that would explain why the breaks felt odd.”

“Jowan did the lion’s share of the messy work and realigned the bits of bone.”  Anders’ expression darkened, and she bit back a snide comment.  “I worked with him and healed the flesh so at least she could move the leg again.  You’re right that I’m not much of a healer.  Jowan is, but only on specific kinds of injuries—tendon, scar, aligning things that are out of place.  Together, we’re almost a whole healer.”

“You’re biased.”  The words came out of him like a small explosion.  “You and he were always cheek by jowl.  I suppose I couldn’t expect you to see him for what he is.” 

A sense of calm descended on her, like icewater spreading through her.  She hadn’t expected to have this conversation now, and she was _not_ in the mood.  “A blood mage,” she said, and knew that there was an inexorable expression on her face.  “A Grey Warden.  Someone prone to a particular brand of foolishness born of a good heart and an ambitious soul.  We do what we must, Anders, and in this case I recruited a man who had betrayed me and everything that I thought the two of us believed.  Can you think of any better place for someone of his talents than on the front lines of a battle that will outlast all of our lifetimes, Anders?”

Anders had rocked back on his heels, as if something in him was seriously contemplating making for the door.  His jaw was clenched, and she knew that there was quite a bit that he wanted to say but couldn’t quite bring himself to.  The silence was condemnation enough.

But he blew out a breath, and his expression smoothed.  “Right.  Well.  Now that _that_ awkwardness is out of the way, I should finish my examination.”

Annoyance returned like a gust of wind.  “Haven’t you seen enough?  I’m well—at least, as much as usual.”

“Hm.”  And there it was again, that stubborn persistence that had meant that he had _kept_ running away where someone else might have given up.  “How are you doing with feeding Cerys?  Breasts doing all right?  How’s she feeling?”

She glared.  “They’re sore, but I’m told that’s not unusual.  Cerys has been fussy, but we’ve also been on the run.  She’ll calm down once we get settled back in.”

“Shirt off, please.  I want to have a look.”  At her blink, he chuckled.  “Seriously, Kathil, you’re not my type.  The soreness is probably normal, but best to make sure.”

On the balance, she decided he was telling the truth.  She shucked her shirt.  “I didn’t think you had a type.  Other than ‘breathing’.”

“Mmmm.  Suppose that’s true.”  But he wasn’t paying much attention to her words.  Instead, he was looking at her scarred shoulder with intent fascination, as if he were Oghren and her shoulder were a kind of alcohol he’d never encountered before.  “Wow.  Suppose that explains why you don’t have much mobility in your neck.  You can use the shoulder, though?”

“It’s my weak side, but yes.”  Just _how_ weak, she successfully hid from just about everyone.  “It’s more flexible than it looks.” 

Anders was poking at the scars.  The sensation of his fingers was a distant pressure, punctuated by a bright prickling where the skin between the scars was largely intact.  “The flesh looks almost...melted.”

“The creature that gave that scar to me had an overabundance of claws, teeth, and acidic spit,”  
 she said.  “I survived, but it was a near thing.”

“I can see that.”  All business now, Anders poked and prodded her breasts.  “Everything looks all right, I’ll give you some salve that will help with the soreness.  Let me know if you start running a fever, though.”  He handed her shirt to her, and she pulled it over her head.  “I’m still working on that fellow you sent back with Alistair.  It’s going to be a near thing if he pulls through.  The amputation they did was a butcher job, which wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t developed an infection in the bone they left.  He doesn’t have very good odds.  Better here than at the Amaranthine chantry, but still not good.”

“I am under the impression that most of the people who knew anything about healing in Amaranthine died when the city came under attack,” Kathil said.  “We did what we could for him, but like you said, I’m not much of a healer, and it wasn’t anything Jowan could work with.” 

The thing they were not saying filled the space between them, the fact that Albert was dying—and well they both knew it.  The poor man’s only fault had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Bringing him here had possibly been the wrong decision, but she couldn’t have done anything else and still been able to look Nathaniel in the eye when he returned from his trip with Oghren.

“I will do my best,” Anders said, and turned away from her.  He pulled a vial from a rack on a nearby table and handed it to her.  “Take half of that tonight before you go to bed, the other half tomorrow night.  It’s a restorative.  And don’t look at me like that, I promise it’s not a sleeping draught.”

“Good, because I’m still awake two or three times a night with Cerys.”  She tried to smile at Anders and failed.  She opted to hop off the table she’d been sitting on.  “Speaking of, she’s probably hungry, and I think Cullen is next on your list.”

“Send him in.”  But Anders wasn’t really paying attention to her, now.  He’d moved into the infirmary more or less immediately upon arriving at the Vigil, and even before the Joining he had started to make the place his own.  She knew Anders enough to know that the constant flirtation and joking were only the most visible aspects of his personality.  Beneath the winks and nudges there was a man who was confident to the point of arrogance on the few subjects he actually was an expert about.  He was not quite Wynne’s equal as a healer, but in a decade or so he would be. 

And he had a deep well of anger, one that even she was wary of provoking.  You didn’t run away from the Circle seven times unless you were quite _terrifically_ angry with everything the Tower represented.

Musing, she collected Cerys from Cullen (who looked like he’d rather face a dragon in his current exhausted and bedraggled state than have Anders poking at him) and walked towards her chamber.  Halfway there, she spied a familiar figure down the hall, and waved.  “Garavel!  Hold up!”

Garavel turned towards her, and there was perhaps a bit of resignation in the way his shoulders slumped.  “Yes?” he said as she drew even with him.  “Did you need something?”

“I want you to put together a list of everyone in the Keep who is affiliated with the Chantry,” she said.  “Priests, brothers, lay sisters, Templars, _everyone_.  Be sure to include whether or not they’re officially assigned to the chapel here.”

The new Seneschal’s look of confusion deepened into dismay.  “Can I ask why?  Are you going to—?”

She shook her head sharply, cutting him off with a slash of her hand through the air.  “No.  I’m not going to lead a... _purge_.  I’m just curious, is all.  We’ve had some trouble with the Chantry in Amaranthine.”

“I heard,” he said.  “I’ll get it together for you.  If that’s all?”

“How is Varel doing?” she asked.  “I haven’t seen him yet.”

“All right, I think, but he looks like his head’s spinning every time I see him.  He’s in his office all the time, locked away with books.  The last time I saw him, he told me that we had to hire a castellan.  I don’t even know where to _find_ a castellan.  Clovis, the old one, served at the keep all his life, and he didn’t have anyone apprenticed to him.”

“I’ll write some letters.”  Perhaps Alistair’s seneschal would have an idea.  Or her half-sister in Waking Sea.  Or Teagan, perhaps, if he was still on speaking terms with her.  She was _quite_ certain that Eamon was _not_.

Kathil let Garavel go, and walked down the long corridor towards her rooms.  Once there, she took half of the restorative, wincing at the bitter taste incompletely masked by the large amount of honey in the formula,  She fed Cerys and curled up in the middle of the big bed.  She only had the energy to remove her boots.

She closed her eyes and tried to banish all of the lingering grief and guilt, the strange sense that Justice had departed and left much of his story incomplete.  _There was nothing I could do,_ she told herself, but the guilt lingered. 

Some time later, she awoke to a familiar presence in the bed.  Zevran slept facing her, the pair of them curled around Cerys like leaves around a blossom.  She could hear Cullen’s sonorous breathing on the other side of Zevran.  On the floor on her side of the bed, Lorn snored.  If she listened very carefully, she could hear Fiann’s lighter breathing near the foot of the bed.

She closed her eyes and took stock of her body.  Her hips still hurt, and there was a sullen fire in her shoulder that was creeping into her neck.  Everything else ached but not as much, not compared to the banked flame ever-present in her blood.  _Strange, the things one gets used to._

Cerys was a warm presence, stirring by chest, one hand seeking.  Kathil shifted and pulled up her shirt.  Cerys’s seeking mouth latched on to one aching nipple.  She nursed, and Kathil dozed.  After three months, this was nearly automatic.  They both fell asleep once more as soon as Cerys had her fill.

The next time she woke completely, the room was brighter, sunlight leaking in through the shutters on the windows.  Zevran kissed her forehead.  “Little bird, it is nearly noon, and there are people lurking outside the door.”

She stretched, feeling the twinge and ping of overused muscles.  “If what they wanted was important, they’d be knocking.”

As if in response, there was a rap on the door of the chamber.  She groaned, and Lorn gave a low woof.  The knock came again, louder.  “Go away,” she called out.  “Whoever you are.”

“Commander, there’s someone here to see you.”  The door muffled the voice, but it was definitely Sigrun.  “She says it can’t wait.”

Kathil frowned.  “Who is it?”

There was a pause.  “You really had better come out here.”  Sigrun’s voice was tight and strained.  Beside her, Zevran’s body had gone taut, and Cullen lifted his head.

Kathil got out of bed, still in yesterday’s rumpled traveling clothes, and padded across the stone floor.  She threw the bolt and opened the door.  Sigrun was standing there, and next to her was a woman in shabby clothes, a human only a head taller than the little dwarf, a bared blade held almost casually in her right hand.  She barely came up to Kathil’s shoulder.

The woman lifted one hand and raked her dark hair back from her eyes.  There were tattoos on the backs of her hands, curling around her fingers, slipping into the shadows in her sleeves.  Zevran made a sound, almost a choked noise.

This was Ville, the Crow assassin that Zevran had spoken of.  And now that Kathil was looking, the woman’s eyes drifted a little, not focusing on Kathil’s face but instead in the general direction of her head.  _She was born blind_ , Zevran had said.  _Let me assure you that it does not hamper her effectiveness as a Crow in the slightest._

“I tried to tell her that you’d see her when you got up, but she wouldn’t let it go,” Sigrun said, and shrugged.  “Far be it from _me_ to stop people from risking death by annoyed mage.”

Kathil nodded, and quirked the corner of her mouth at Sigrun.  “I have two of the most beautiful men in Amaranthine in my bed, and _finally_ the privacy to do something about it.  This had better be good.”

Ville sniffed, raising her pointed nose a little.  The blade in her hand slid into a hidden sheath and disappeared.  “And yet you still wear clothes that smell like road dirt and sweat.  You are fresh from the road and unwashed, as are the two men in the bed.  Speaking of...”  She smiled.  “Zevran.  It has been a while, yes?”

“Ville.  It has.”  Kathil heard him get to his feet, and risked a glance over her shoulder.  Unlike Kathil, he had taken the time to undress before bed.  The black tattoos on his body curled around his hips and over the lean muscles of his abdomen, symbols laid in scar over his chest.  “What do you want?”

She spoke a long sentence in Antivan, tilting her head.  Zevran snorted in response.  “I will do you the favor of not translating that, Ville.  Largely because I have no wish to see how a contest between you and my _wife_ would end.”

“You are no fun, my desert thorn.  I shall come to the point, yes?”  Her Antivan accent was much thicker than Zevran’s, lending her voice a liquid sort of music.  “You are having trouble with a certain Seeker of the Chantry.  So strange, that a Seeker would cross the Waking Sea from the north on a _qunari_ ship.  So I, being the curious woman I am, followed.  I imagined that it might have something to do with a very _interesting_ package that was sent to the grandmaster of the Blooded.  You have enemies, Warden-Commander.  And they are afraid of you.”

Kathil pressed her lips together, chewed briefly on the inside of her cheek.  “You’d better come in and close the door.  Sigrun—”

“I’ll keep watch.”  Sigrun’s narrow-eyed glance at Ville forestalled any other requests Kathil might have made of her.  Ville stepped over the threshold, and Sigrun closed the door behind her.

Ville walked to a chair and sat down.  _She’s been in here before.  Or at least someone has well enough to tell her where the furniture is._   “Put some clothing on, Zevran,” the assassin called.  “While I know perfectly well you are fetching when naked, there is no need to distract the Wardens.”

“I thought you said she was blind,” Cullen muttered.

“I am,” Ville replied.  “The sound of a clothed body in motion is different than when it is unclothed, no?  More importantly, I know that Zevran sleeps nude whenever it is safe to do so.  Ensconced in this fortress with his wife and his lover, he would feel safe indeed.”

Kathil ground her teeth.  “And why couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?” she asked.  Zevran and Cullen both started pulling on clothes, moving cautiously, not taking their eyes off of Ville. 

She folded her tattooed hands almost primly, the tattoos giving a brief illusion of entangling.  “Your arrival back at the Keep has not gone unnoticed.  Even now, there is a group of men, Templar-trained mercenaries among them, gathering outside your fortress, discussing how best to take you and your child.  It seems there was an...incident, on the road, yes?  They have come to the conclusion that they cannot take only the child.  They must subdue and capture you as well.”

“Two attacks.”  Kathil surveyed Ville with a frown.  “One between here and Amaranthine.  One in the Blackmarsh.”

The assassin chuckled.  “Did I not say you had enemies?  Several of them.  The Chantry Seeker who came on the qunari ship plays a conservative hand, though perhaps not conservative enough if your lack of surprise is anything to go by.  One person, in a strange land, not officially sanctioned—there are no resources to spare.  The Seeker could not have been responsible for two attacks, not in the short time you were gone.”

“So who was responsible for the other attack?”

“Who can say?”  Ville shrugged one shoulder.  “Rumor is running wild about the Warden-Commander and her pet maleficars.  Think about where and when and how, eliminate the impossible.”  She flicked her thumbnail against her index finger.  “Then choose from the improbable.” 

“You did not answer my question,” Zevran said.  His voice was low and rough.  “What do you want?”

“Mmmm.  Always so impatient, my thorn.  It is one of your greatest flaws.”  Ville sighed and wrinkled her nose.  “I am _primera_ of the Rosa Quebrada.  I see much in my duties.  Rumor, innuendo, these are as much my stock in trade as garrotes and poison.  And there was a most _amusing_ rumor about...two and a half years ago, no?  My old student, my very _dear_ friend Zevran Aranai, he was back in Antiva after years away, and he was boasting that he had a new master, a Grey Warden.  But when I investigate—pfft!  He is gone.  Now I am intrigued.  It has been a most _boring_ few years.  So I begin to ask questions.  And when I ask questions, I am met everywhere with blank walls.  I begin to wonder if my pupil spoke the truth.”  She shrugged one shoulder.  “For if he speaks the truth, then this Grey Warden has stepped on a stage that is far larger than she realizes.  So I leave the Rosa Quebrada in the capable hands of my _cuidador_ , and I pursue.”

“Why?” Zevran asked.  He drew even with Kathil, holding Cerys.  “You have never done anything merely because you were _interested_.”

“Well.” She made a dismissive gesture with one hand.  “Could you not believe that it was merely affection for an old friend?  No?  Pity.”  The tip of her tongue slipped out from between her lips.  “You are a symptom, my desert thorn, you and your Wardens.  A harbinger.  A storm is rising to engulf the whole world, and it will sweep away all who are unprepared.  It is happening in Orlais, where the Empress shifts uneasily on her glittering throne.  It is happening in the Free Marches, where one man is single-handedly overturning the government.  In Antiva, the Blooded are falling, and they have no clear successor, no one Crow cell whose star is rising to take their place.  In Tevinter, a single magister dies and the whole country begins to crack.  And in all this chaos, the qunari are moving.”  Ville pursed her lips.  “And in Ferelden, the backwater country that defeated a Blight on its own, there is a new schism brewing in the Chantry.  It may be the crack that destroys the world, my thorn.  Or the wound that saves it.  So I am here because I believe that your Grey Warden will wish to buy what I am selling, and because I will _not_ be caught unprepared by the rising storm.”

Kathil took a deep breath.  _Antivans.  Sodding mad, every last one of them._   “And what is it that you are selling, Ville?”

“Alliance.  The Rosa Quebrada are on the rise, but we do not have nearly the advantage we need to make sure that we take the place of the Blooded.  Your name is known, Warden-Commander Kathil Amell.  Even the Antivan princes flinch when the name of the Amells of Kirkwall is spoken.  An alliance would be to our mutual benefit, especially if that alliance came with some very _visible_ assistance.”

Kathil opened her mouth, and closed it again.  “The Amells...of Kirkwall?”

Ville raised an eyebrow.  “Ah, but she does not know?  She does not know.  Hah!  Zevran, my thorn, you have kept this from her.  Tch.  Naughty boy.”

Zevran shrugged.  “The name is likely a coincidence, no?  One does not expect Marcher nobility to simply turn up in Ferelden.”

“And Amell was my mother’s name.  Her _given_ name.”  Kathil glared at Ville, who was smiling slightly.  “She had no family name, as far as I know.  I was given her name when I was taken to the Tower, because my father’s family name is...recognizable.”

“Mmm.  Possible, though unlikely.  The Amell family is known for being mage blood, root and branch, as much as the Marchers would like to deny it.  And when one finds a mage with the family name Amell...”  She shrugged.  “Besides.  My compatriots tell me that you look very like an Amell.  Though you are quite short for one.”

Kathil shook her head, trying to clear it.  _It doesn’t matter.  Focus._   “You said something about assistance in return for alliance?  We don’t exactly have much to spare, you know.”

“It would be a very small thing, no?”  The little smile on Ville’s face flashed into a grin.  “Something symbolic.  Crows, we love symbols, do we not?  Symbols and signs and omens.  There is a sword, Warden-Commander.  It hangs behind your desk.  Made of the bones of a dragon who was old when the Tevinter Empire was founded, forged by a smith with a feverish, restless gift.  Emblazoned with the wings of a griffon.  Commissioned, I believe, by your predecessor.”

“It’s called Vigilance.  Laurens gave it to me when he left.”  She shrugged when Zevran glanced at her.  “It’s balanced wrong for me, and it’s not a mageblade.  I was going to give it to Cullen.  So we give you the sword, and in return?”

“In return I give you information.  I have been here for weeks, and my ears are very sharp.”  She rose to her feet.  “And there is the matter of why I chose to, shall we say, barge in on you.  I can always tell when murder is singing in the air, and the song is very loud just now.”

“ _Whose_ murder?”  Her breath snagged in her throat.

“Two murders.”  Her head dipped forward, and her dark hair fell to obscure her expression and her drifting eyes.  “Give me alliance, and I tell you who dies this afternoon.  Along with so much else.”

Kathil took a breath.  “Zevran, you know her.  Can we trust her?”

He raised an eyebrow.  “No.  But she tells the truth.  The Quebrada  Rosa—the Shattered Rose, in this language—it is second only to the Blooded Feather and the _Tiernas_ as precedence is reckoned in Antiva, and they demand the highest prices of all.  A sword such as the one she describes...the Antivan nobility is a superstitious lot, and Grey Wardens occupy a prominent place in the list of monsters under the bed, so to speak.  Be good or the Wardens will come and take you away, mothers tell their little boys.  If one wishes to take power, allying oneself with a nightmare is not a poor move.”  He gave Ville a long look.  “She will act according to her nature, and the sword is a magnificent price.  It is perhaps less dangerous to trust her than it is to turn her away.”

“Faint praise, my thorn.”  But Ville was smiling.  “So?  What shall it be?”

Kathil thought, turning over the possibilities in her mind.  “You’ll leave?  Go back to Antiva?”

“Ah, she is jealous!  _So_ charming, no?”  Ville put a hand on her hip.  “I will sail away soon.  I trust my _cuidador_ , but there are limits to the amount of time I may be away.”

“One assassin in the Vigil is _quite_ enough.”  She glanced as Zevran, then Cullen.  Zevran looked troubled, but nodded shallowly; Cullen just spread his hands and shook his head.  She held out her hands to Zevran, and he handed Cerys to her.  The infant was awake now, and squirming.  “All right.  You’ll have your sword.”

Ville touched her fingertips to her mouth.  “Wise woman.  The targets are your Mistress Woolsey, she who holds the keys to the treasury and so very many sums in her head, and your Arl Varel.  The signal is the nighthawk’s cry when the sun is full up, this afternoon.  The assassins are among the guards.  The _agente_ holds their families to guarantee their cooperation.”

“Who ordered the killings?” Kathil asked.  She felt as though giant hands were on her shoulders, pushing them together with a crushing pressure.

“It is a long chain, and not a very interesting one.  Let us say that this is repayment of a favor owed to one of the Blooded, who work for a crowned prince.  Not crowned for _long_ , of course.  And the payment is late, as the one who it is to be paid to is already dead.”  She tipped her head toward Zevran.  “The failure of the _agente_ here will ripple all the way back to Antiva.”

“The names of the guards?”

“Jothan and Kevit,” Ville replied.  “Jothan attends Mistress Woolsey.  Kevit is assigned to Varel.  The _agente_ is one of the merchants in the outer ward, and he goes by the name Marko.  All three should vanish.  The two guards...”  She shrugged, making that dismissive gesture again.  “Best not to take chances.”

Kathil took a long breath.  “If you are playing us false—”

“But I am not, am I?”  She grinned.  “I will return later, to collect my prize.”  Between one breath and the next, Ville was gone. 

The hairs on the back of Kathil’s neck rose.  The assassin _had_ to still be in here, but she suspected that if they looked they would find nothing more than dust.  “Let’s get moving.” 

Two guards were no trouble to take out.  The merchant was only a little more challenging, as he was staying in plain view in the outer ward.  But a well-timed distraction provided by an ox that found itself with its bollocks a bit frosted gave them the space they needed to make the merchant vanish.  Ville had indeed not played them false; the man had Crow tattoos under his shirt, and there were coded messages stashed in a hollow in the stock of the crossbow that was, from the look of it, well and often wielded.

Once they had taken care of the bodies and found the families of the unfortunate soldiers, the sun was sinking and Kathil _still_ hadn’t had a bath or anything to eat, much less drilled with the new Warden-mages or gotten to sit down with Leliana.  She was almost as cranky as her daughter, who had evidently had enough excitement for one week and was letting everyone around her know it.

“If I can just get her to _sleep_ —”  She stopped as a wave of frustration rose in her, followed swiftly by the choking tears that ambushed her on occasion when she was feeling overwhelmed. 

“Here,” Cullen said, and held out his arms.  “The bath is full, if not warm.  Let me take Cerys for the moment.  You go wash.”

She took a deep breath, and shuddered.  _Let them help.  You don’t have to do this on your own._   “Thanks,” she said as she handed Cerys over to Cullen.  The baby kicked fretfully at the blanket wrapped around her, but her wails subsided into hiccups.  _Why does it seem sometimes like she prefers_ everyone _else to me?_

Kathil took her frustrations off to the bath.  She didn’t have a lot of energy, but she could heat the bath to warmer than blood temperature.  The stone tub was still cold, and leached heat as if that was exactly what it had been designed to do, but for a blissful few minutes after scrubbing herself down the water was still warm enough for relaxation.

“So.  Family, is it?”

That was Sati, lounging against the side of the stone tub.  Kathil was dreaming, she knew she was dreaming, and yet here was Sati, her dark skin shining with water, her fingertips leaking just a little bit of reddish light.  _Strange.  I don’t remember those scars on her thighs._ “My family is here.  It doesn’t matter who I’m related to by blood.  Blood ends the day the doors of the Tower close behind us.”

“Still.  I wonder what they’re like.  The Amells of Kirkwall.  It has a nice ring, I think.”  Sati moved abruptly, water sloshing against the sides of the stone tub, and straddled Kathil’s lap.  “Hm,” she said as she lowered her mouth to Kathil’s.  “This is interesting, is it not?”

Her lips touched Kathil’s, and that was _not_ Sati’s mouth but another entirely familiar mouth on hers, tongue probing.  Kathil felt herself rise without moving, her awareness pressing into her own body.  Suspended between dream and waking, all she could do was to pull the person above her down, wrap her arms around a strong back.  _Zevran._

She did not let him up for a long time, and when she did they were taut against one another, tension singing in them.  “Come to bed,” he said, his lips brushing hers.  “There is a Templar waiting for us there.”

“Cerys?”

“Asleep,” he said.  “In her cradle, with two warhounds guarding her.”  He rose, pulling her upright, and they stepped out of the tub.  Zevran snagged a towel from the chair and wrapped Kathil in it, then pulled her into his arms. 

She set her lips against his neck just under his ear and breathed in his scent of leather and stone and musk.  Zevran shifted against her.  “ _Are_ you jealous of Ville?” he asked.  “Truly?”

Kathil snorted and took his earlobe in her teeth, gently.  “Worried?”

“Mmm.  Should I be?”

She bit down gently, heard his hissing intake of breath, then let go.  “I have every faith in you, Zev.”

And it was not an answer; but it was answer enough.

* * *

 _Zevran:_

They folded into each other as if it had been not months since the three of them had been together but days.  Despite the day they had all had—or perhaps because of it—all three of them were fairly ravenous.

All to the good, since seeing Ville once more had provoked an…unexpected reaction in him.  After all these years, he would have thought that the power of her presence would have faded.  It had not.  Not in the least.

And it was not desire for her that was riding him.  It was something else, something he could not name and dared not think about too closely.  But even if he did not understand it, he could use it.

The body was made for desire, after all.

Kathil chuckled as she drew one leg up and traced a toe down the inner side of his calf.  “I think that Zevran gets to be in the middle tonight.  It’s his mission we’re celebrating, after all.”

“Ah?  Is that what we are celebrating?”  He made his voice light, teasing.  “I thought perhaps we were merely celebrating being alive.  I must confess that I am surprised that we are.”

Cullen had propped himself up on one elbow.  He looked down at the two of them.  “So am I.  And Ville.  She’s…something else, isn’t she?”

“She is.”  He gave Cullen a slow smile.  “I would not bed her, were I you.  Non-Crows who go to her bed do not survive the experience.  Though I am assured that they all die _exquisitely_ happy.”

He snorted.  “Wasn’t planning on it.  I think I have my hands full.  Speaking of hands—”  He traced fingers down Zevran’s chest.  “Let’s put ours to good use.”

They did, and he indulged in a long, slow kiss with Cullen, feeling Kathil’s hands trace down his spine, electricity waking in his skin.  “Let us,” she murmured into his ear.  Her lips kissed their way down to the sensitive join between neck and shoulder.  Her teeth grazed his skin, and wordlessly he pressed his body back into hers.

She bit down, and the sharp pain of it was sweet release.

Cullen’s hands were busy, sliding down over his belly to take Zevran in one strong hand.  Kathil’s hand was still in motion, tracing over Zevran’s buttocks, dipping in between. 

Zevran gave himself over to the moment, abandoning thought to pleasure.  _This,_ was his only thought.  _This.  Ever this._

He spilled quickly—it had been some time, after all—but the truly remarkable thing about mages was that the spells they used to refresh a warrior exhausted from battle could be repurposed for all sorts of things.  He lay on his back, Kathil’s mouth on him and Cullen keeling by his head.  Evidently, the two of them had been plotting.  He approved.

He gasped and hissed a word, and Kathil curled her fingers so her fingernails met his flesh.

 _Yes._

“Mine,” she whispered, voice harsh.  “ _Ours._ ”  Her fingernails dug in and brought with them cold fire, and he shuddered as Cullen shoved himself in to the hilt, and Zevran would have arched his body but there was nowhere to go—nowhere to flee—

Pain and pleasure were one and the same, and the barriers between himself and what he carried shredded and vanished.

Some time later, the room had gone mostly silent.  Kathil had fallen asleep a while ago; her head was pillowed on her arm, and her lips curved a little in an uncharacteristic smile.  Cullen and Zevran had continued, but there was a limit to endurance, and they had finally reached it. 

Desire sated for the moment, he and Cullen lay loosely intertwined.  The Templar bent his head forward to kiss Zevran’s forehead.  “So?  Was that an acceptable reward for a job well done?”

Zevran raised an eyebrow.  “Ah, but there is no good answer to that, is there?  If I say no, I disparage a truly extraordinary evening.”  He smiled, lazy and satisfied as a cat.  “And if I say yes, then there is no incentive to do it again.”

 “Oh, there’s _incentive_.”  The other man threw one leg over Zevran’s hip.  “I think there’s incentive enough for all of us.”

Desire’s song was muted, and the things that Ville’s presence stirred up had retreated.  But as they dropped down towards sleep, he thought that he saw a shadow pass between them and the window, feel a current of air stir where nothing should be moving.

Whatever it was, it was gone before Zevran could begin to react.

He may have slept, then, and he may have dreamed.  Ville’s hands shone in the darkness of sleep, wreathed with lines like smoke.

* * *

 _Cullen:_

He watched Kathil pace in front of a small group of mages, gesturing sharply.  “All right.  I know Anders’ specialties—healing and hexes.  Kinnon?”

Kinnon shrugged.  “I’m a generalist.  Maybe leaning a bit towards the Spirit school.”

“Keili?”

She glanced to one side, and muttered, “Primal.”

A troubled look passed across Kathil’s face.  “And Jowan is Primal, Blood, and shapeshifting.”

“How about yours?” Anders asked, a lazy, dangerous edge in his voice.

“Arcane warrior, ice spells, and spells that disable or kill other mages.” Kathil smiled at Anders, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes; Cullen wondered what was going on between the two of them. “And a few other things besides. Each of you except Keili will probably end up picking up another specialty in short order, and that will determine where and how you fight. First, though, you’ll need to learn one of the most important things a Warden-mage needs to know. Cullen?”

He got up from the bench where he’d been sitting.  He wasn’t exactly thrilled about what Kathil had asked him to do this morning, but he did agree that it was better him than one of the others.  “This is going to hurt,” he warned them, and took a breath.  Then he released the cleansing, feeling the Veil solidify around them.

Anders, Keili, and Kinnon staggered, paling.  Anders in particular looked sick to his stomach, turning fish-green.  Jowan put one hand to his head, swallowing. 

Kathil barely turned a hair.  “Believe it or not, you get used to it,” she said.  “It is _entirely_ possible to learn how to function through a cleansing.  You can still use your weapon, whether it’s staff or sword.  And the one thing that a Templar is _not_ expecting is for you to be able to move just after they’ve used the cleansing.  They depend on there being that time after the cleansing where you’re sick and stunned.  I’ll let you recover, and then we’ll pair off and do some sparring.” 

Anders recovered first, probably because he’d been hit with the cleansing more than once during his numerous escape attempts.  He moved stiffly, though, and he would not look at Cullen.  He faced off against Jowan, who was next to recover.  The two of them tossed primal spells at one another, almost good-naturedly.

Almost.

Kathil turned her attention to Kinnon and Keili.  Keili was shaking her head as if trying to clear it, but pushed away Kathil’s hand.  “I’m all right,” she said, and a little thread of dread was winding its way through Cullen’s gut.  He’d seen what Keili was capable of, once.  She had gone through her Harrowing just after Kathil had been taken away from the Tower.  After Keili had awoken, she’d gone to the chapel to pray—Keili was _always_ in the chapel—and the next thing anyone had known the chapel was filled with flame and Keili was screaming about apparitions with swords. 

They’d had to replace most of the pews, and nobody had ever known _why_ Keili had gone briefly crazy.  The Templar who’d been standing guard hadn’t been willing to talk, and he’d died during the attack on the Circle less than a year later.

(Though they had found the statue of Andraste in the chapel broken after the siege, the remnants of a glass vial and a little smear of dried blood among the ruin, and no one had even ventured a guess as to what had happened _there_.)

It had been a little creepy, how quiet she’d gone after that.  Actually, a _lot_ creepy.  They’d been used to the Keili who would occasionally beg them to run her through; the new, silent Keili was not someone any of them knew.

And now she was here, and a Warden, and he was still reserving judgment.

She and Kinnon started halfheartedly sparring with each other, batting flames back and forth.  Leliana arrived, and Zevran with Cerys, and the bard was talking about something that seemed to require a lot of excited gesturing.  Zevran had a dubious expression on his face; Cullen heard Leliana mention _celebration_ and _wedding_ and _dancing, of course_ , and smothered a smile.  Ah.  That. 

Then his heart stuttered in his chest as he felt the Veil rip open, felt a mage nearby draw on far more power than a simple sparring session called for—

Heat washed over him as the sound of a fireball hit him.  He turned to see Jowan rolling to his feet, face blackened with soot, calling on power of his own.  He sent an earthen projectile back at Anders, and abruptly the two men weren’t sparring, they were actually attempting to murder one another.

Reflexively, Cullen gathered his will for the cleansing—this was what he was here for, to step in if things got out of hand—but paused as he felt Kathil’s hand grip his forearm hard.  “Don’t,” she said.  “Let me.”

He opened his mouth to reply but she was already stalking towards Jowan and Anders, power almost visible around her.  Her hands were empty, and bare.  The two mages paid her no attention at all; Anders cast a hex on Jowan, who hissed and went for the little dagger he wore in his belt.

Kathil was between them, and flung her hands outward.  Power concentrated and the world rocked briefly.  Then power poured from her hands, raw force hitting both Anders and Jowan.  They both flew backwards like dolls thrown by a tantruming child.  Anders crashed into a pile of crates, and Jowan went rolling into a haystack.  Incredibly, Anders barely seemed to blink, getting to his feet and starting to spit the words to a spell.

She raised a finger to her lips.

It was not noisy, that spell.  Nor was it flashy.  But Kathil ripped away Anders’s power and drained it into the earth, leaving the healer gasping for breath and sagging against the broken crate he was next to. 

Silence fell.

“If you gentlemen are _quite_ done, I want both of you in my office.”  Kathil’s voice was quiet and steady.  “Now.  You will explain to me—”

Beneath their feet, something stirred.

Cullen felt it as a lurch in the pit of his stomach, the abrupt awareness that somewhere nearby something out of nightmares was opening its eyes.  Lorn and Fiann broke out into strange, urgent howls, and all of the mages in the courtyard went pale.  “Maker’s Breath—!”  That was Kinnon, who was holding onto his staff for dear life.  “What was _that_?”

“It felt like...something woke up.”  Jowan was climbing to his feet.  His hair was full of bits of hay.  “Something underneath the Vigil.”

Cullen knelt next to Fiann, who had quieted but whose eyes were rimmed with white.  The warhound licked her nose, over and over again.  The Veil had settled back to its normal self, but there was a feeling of pressure, of watchfulness, still hanging in the air.  “Maybe if we don’t bother it any more, it’ll go back to sleep?” Keili suggested.  Her eyes were wide, barely controlled panic in her voice.

“We are _never_ that lucky,” Kathil said.  “It’s not something I’ve felt before.  But I get the impression it’s below us.  There are tunnels beneath the Vigil.”  Her frown was deepening.  Lorn pressed himself against the backs of her legs.  “Andraste’s little apples, I wish this had happened _after_ Nathaniel had gotten back.  He’s the closest thing we have to an expert on what’s underneath the fortress.  Maybe Sigrun’s been into the tunnels.”

They were drifting together in the center of the courtyard.  Leliana was only limping a little as she walked towards them, leaning slightly on a stick made of polished, deep red wood.  “She mentioned something about a door down there, something dwarven-made.  She may be able to guide us.”  She smiled.  “And of course, you would not dream of leaving me behind, would you?”

“Your knee—”

“Is fine as long as I do not try to do acrobatics,” Leliana said.  She cast a glance at Anders.  “Or so this fine fellow claims, yes?”

Kathil frowned deeply.  “Yes, but who knows what we’re going to find down there?”  Leliana’s jaw went hard and stubborn, and the two women looked at each other for a moment in silence.  Something wordless passed between them.  “Fine,” Kathil said.  She looked like she was thinking hard.  “Zevran, Leliana, Keili, Jowan, Sigrun and I will go down beneath the Vigil.  And Lorn, of course.  I suppose I’ll need one or two of the Templars as well.”

Strange, that almost sounded like—  “I’m not going with you?” he asked.

“No.”  She ran a thumb over the pommel of her sword.  “I am _not_ taking the entirety of what passes for the leadership of the Fereldan Wardens with me.  I need someone senior to take care of things up here, and keep Cerys safe.”

 _Just in case we don’t come back._

The words were hanging in the air, unspoken.

Cullen bowed to necessity, though the idea that he was being left _in charge_ filled him with a formless dread.  “All right,” he said.  “Don’t be too long, or else I might have to come down after you.”

“I’ll feed Cerys before I leave.  A bit of goat milk won’t do her any harm for a meal or two, though I hope it doesn’t take that much time.  Kinnon, if you could find Sigrun and Bran for me?”  Kathil gave Anders and Jowan a gimlet glance.  “Don’t think this is going to get either of you off the hook.  I want to know what your sodding problem is with each other, but I don’t have time for the story right now.  First thing after we get back, the two of you are going to talk to me.”

“And there is one more you will need to take with you, no?” A new voice broke in, Antivan accent rounding and blurring the edges of the words.  Ville strode out from behind the pile of crates Anders had crashed into.  “I wish to guard my investment, after all.”

“Wonderful,” he heard Kathil mutter under her breath.  “I’m sorry, Mistress Ville, but the answer is no.”

“Is it, then?”  Ville tilted her head.  Her hair obscured her eyes, but there was a slight smile on her lips.  “I have a sense of direction and position that is unequaled in this muddy little country.  And unlike even the most perceptive dwarf, _I_ need no light to navigate by.  Or to kill by.”

Kathil looked at Cullen and then Zevran, her expression guarded.  Then she shrugged.  “Fine.  Come, if you like.  We leave in a quarter hour—those who are going into the tunnels, meet me by the door into the basement.”

There was a flurry of activity then, kisses and hugs and a baby fed and then handed to Cullen to rock to sleep, and then they were gone, into whatever it was that the Vigil was built atop of.

 _Come back safe, my loves._

Duty was a grindstone, and a comfort.  He would hold onto it, until they returned.

* * *

 _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._ _  
_ _I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_ _  
_ _so I love you because I know no other way_ __

___than this: where I does not exist, nor you,_ _  
_ _so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,_ _  
_ _so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._ __

_\--Pablo Neruda_


	10. Between the Shadow and the Soul

_We hear their hearts beating still, submerged, drowning._   
_  
_   
_If we had sons and daughters as you mortals do,_   
_  
_   
_would we treat them with such cruelty?_   
_  
_   
_For they stay here, screaming, unable to pass_   
_  
_   
_to wherever it is you mortals pass to, what very little of you survives_   
_  
_   
_when your bodies fail—_

 _We cradle them in our bodies, these delicious children._   
_  
_   
_We have pity, unlike you._

— _from the Canticle of Demons, stanza six: of the Harrowed_

* * *

 _Leliana:_

Leliana had never been fond of tunnels, but at least the tunnels beneath the Vigil were dry, if cold. "And of course, we will need to invite Brother Genitivi," she said to Zevran. The two of them were bringing up the rear of the group. Ahead of them, torches cast a wavering light on the walls. They had learned in the Deep Roads that it was not wise to rely on magelights, down in the deep. "He is still leading Chantry research teams in Haven, we can contact him there."

Zevran ran his thumb over his lips. "Are you certain this is a good idea? Things are unsettled yet."

"You are the one who went and got married with only the Drydens present as witnesses," Leliana said. "Besides. Kathil promised me that I would dance at the celebration. And since Anders has put my knee right—" _mostly, at least—_ "I intend to hold her to that. We must make bold statements, and this is one of them."

"I do not think the Chantry is going to be impressed by this show of bravado." He raised his chin and pointed it in Kathil's direction, ahead of them. "Though I suppose it is minor, considering what else we have planned."

"Trust me, it _will_ be the social event of the summer, and those who visit will witness for themselves Amaranthine's strength and her desperate need. Let those who come see for themselves that the Vigil in the hands of the Grey Wardens is not the pit of iniquity that rumor says." She smiled at Zevran. He was arguing only as a matter of form, of course; pride demanded at least a token objection to the idea of being more or less paraded before all of the notables who would feel compelled to show up to the celebration of the Commander of the Grey's wedding.

And they _would_ feel compelled. Some would come out of friendship. Others would come out of curiosity. Still others would come out of cold spite, in hope that something dreadful would happen to Kathil.

But they would come, and that was the important part.

Ahead of them, Kathil stopped. "We're close." Leliana did not like the odd note in her voice, because she had heard it before. Generally, it heralded disaster of some sort.

They were just before an arched doorway, and beyond the door echoes reported a large space. Room or chasm, Leliana could not tell. The darkness was thick and oppressive; they had passed strange statues and altars to Avvar gods. _What I would not give for a team of scholars and a year to study this place. There is so much down here, so much lost and fallen into ruin._

Ville slipped out into the darkness. The Crow—for Crow she was, even if Zevran closed his mouth and shook his head every time Leliana asked about her—called back, "It's a hall of some sort." a clatter made them all jump. "Piles of old dry bones here, too. Some creature's midden, I think."

Keili moaned, and put her hand against the wall. "It's here—whatever it is, it's here—"

That was all the warning they received before the presence pressed down on them.

* * *

 _Zevran:_

The blindfold pressed against his eyes.

He'd grown used to it in the time he'd been in Ville's rooms near the edge of one of the markets, deep within Blooded territory. He didn't know how long he had been here, precisely; it felt like a few weeks, perhaps a month. Not so long as a season, not so short as a day.

Long enough to come to terms with this training.

 _(In his body, his hands were clenched. A jarring thud meant that he had fallen to the ground. He tried to tell himself_ this is the work of a demon _but nothing was obeying him. Not his body. Not even his mind was his own.)_

Ville's footsteps were distinctive; she wore soft shoes that shushed against the floorboards, and her steps were quick and light. She approached where he knelt in the center of the space that served as a living space and the place where Zevran would sleep at night when his master was finished with him. "Better today, young Zevran," she said. "The rooms are nearly in order. The chairs are only very slightly out of place."

The three lanterns in the window were in precisely the correct locations for signaling. The daggers on the desk were lined up just so; the clothing organized impeccably. But the chairs, ah, they always defeated him.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and kept his eyes closed behind the blindfold. He could cheat, if he wanted; through the cloth he could see some gradations of light and dark. In the beginning, he had peeked out a little.

She knew, though. She always knew. Ville had an unerring nose for defiance of all kinds. Another Crow master might have beaten Zevran for it, or hung him on the rack and applied the various instruments of their trade.

That was not Ville's way, and her genius was far subtler than the torture rack could encompass.

 _I imagine you have learned not to want, young Zevran, for it has not been safe for you to want. I will teach you desire. Any fool can learn to shut away his hungers. You must learn how to master them, use them. And when the time is right, to give into them._

She traced a finger down the side of his face. He shuddered, despite himself, and she chuckled. "Have you learned your lesson yet?"

Always that same question, every day. And his answer was, so far, always the same. "Which lesson?"

Ville's chuckle was throaty. "Come. I will show you, yes?"

 _(Zevran arched his back—the only motion he was allowed—and tried to curl his toes. He was ragingly hard, his breath coming hard and fast._ Fight. You must fight. _But breaking free was far easier said than done, and there was too much of him mired in memory.)_

He had hated her at first with all the frustrated hunger he owned, a deep well of rage. She had seated herself on the edge of the bed the first night and said simply, _worship me_. It had taken him some time to work out what she had meant.

It was not enough to merely submit. Submission was taught by the breaking-masters, and Ville was after something far subtler. He read her without knowing how he was doing so, each intake of breath and movement of her hand carrying a wealth of information. Today was different from the days before. She wanted something else from him.

She had never laid a finger on him in punishment, and yet his deepest fear at this moment was that he would disappoint her. Her clothes came off under his hands, leaving her clad only in the intricate web of tattoos that Zevran had never seen, only felt as subtle variations in the texture of her skin. They were a map of pleasure, and as always his fingers followed the curves of it. There were scars he didn't remember on her shoulder, three of them—had he simply forgotten?

Then he stopped. Pulled back.

"Something is wrong?" she asked.

His breath was ragged in his throat. "This is not what you desire."

"Oh? What do I desire, my desert thorn?" Ville's voice was full of something, some emotion that was not quite pleasure, not quite pain. She stepped close to him. He could feel the heat radiating off of her naked skin.

Zevran swallowed. "You return to your home after a kill, smelling of sorrow and of anger. You desire—" How to say it? What was the word for what this woman needed? She was still as stone, and so was he. A drop of sweat made its way between his shoulderblades. "Absolution," he said. "And it is not something you can go to Thrit with, or Llumine. So you come home in the hope that I will prove distracting."

"There you are wrong," she said. She put one small hand on his chest, just over her heart. "I come home in hope that my student has learned his lesson, and is capable of giving me what I need."

Zevran put one hand over hers. "Then shall we dance, my master?" With his other hand, he touched the side of her face. A moment later, he laid his lips on hers. He knew her body in so many ways, had explored its most intimate recesses—but this was the first time he had dared kiss her.

She murmured something wordless and kissed him back.

 _(Zevran stopped struggling. He had learned a valuable lesson that day—that to master desire, it was not enough to fight it. One must lean into it, to give in without losing control._

 _The answer came softly, and he could not believe he had not seen it before.)_

"Tell me," he said, his lips still on Ville's. "Three daggers on the desk. Three paper lanterns hanging in the window. Three new scars on your shoulder. Why three? What is important about that number?"

She went stiff against him, with a twitch as of a dreamer waking. "Three is the number of recall," she said. "One is to enter. Two is to act. Three...is to return."

Ville's hand clenched on his shirt, but she was gone in the next heartbeat. As was the room, as was the blindfold, and Zevran was falling upward, out of memory and into the present.

* * *

 _Jowan:_

He followed close on Anders' heels. "You're a full enchanter," he hissed at Ander's back. "Why don't you _do_ something?"

"Don't you think I want to?" Anders glanced over his shoulder. "Don't you think that if I could stop this, I _would_? But the moment I talk to Irving I'm dead, and I _like_ being alive. All I can do is help with the aftermath. Or try, at least."

They emerged into the apprentice stacks, magelights in the carrels burning low. "So that's it? You're not going to tell anyone? Not even Kathil?"

Anders stopped, and turned towards him. In the dim of the library, his eyes were black pits in his strong-boned face. "If Sati wanted Kathil to know, don't you think she would have told her already? Besides, she's your friend. _You_ tell her, if you want her to know that badly. What do you think your little friend is going to do, exactly? Confront Uldred?"

She probably would. And she would probably die doing it. "I just can't sit by knowing that this is happening," he said. "This is _wrong_. I could _feel_ what he was doing to her. He's..."

"Defiling her soul as well as her body," Anders said. "I know. Trust me, I know. _None_ of his coterie want to be there, and yet they all go to him when he calls. He's preparing them for something. All of them. And they all know that the moment they breathe a word, the moment they ask for help, they get denounced as blood mages and spitted. If they're lucky. If they're not lucky..." He shrugged. "There are things worse than death. A _lot_ worse."

Jowan felt ill. When he'd glimpsed Uldred's naked back in one of the enchanter carrels, recognized the woman beneath him, he had been ready to rush in and confront Sati. Anders had dragged him physically away, and in a harsh whisper he had explained what was happening.

Anders knew. And Anders did nothing.

"You _coward_ ," he said.

"Never claimed anything else," the other mage said, and shrugged. "It's not right, but neither is this whole situation, this Tower and the Templars and all of us locked in here like good little sheep. Go, Jowan, before Ser Jair recovers from what I dosed his tea with. Get to bed."

There was nothing else to say. Nothing else he _could_ say. So Jowan walked into the whispering shadows of the library, leaving Anders behind. On the top of the stack of books he carried was the tome of advanced healing spells that he'd talked Anders into helping him obtain. He hadn't even glanced at the rest of the books Jowan had grabbed.

 _I won't end up like Sati,_ he told himself. _If I'm going to learn this, I have to be careful._

It was his imagination that some of the books he carried throbbed a little, as if they were thirsty.

 _(But they didn't feel like that. They were just_ books _. The worst thing about them was the dust—)_

Sati had been dead for six years, the Tower was broken, and Anders was a Warden.

Jowan broke the surface of memory, and rose into darkness.

* * *

 _Lorn:_

Heat torments him.

He lies on his side in this strange place, panting, burning from the inside. He laps water, but it does not cool him. He whines for his human, but his human does not come to comfort hm.

When the shadows are long, he remembers that his human is dead and will never come to comfort him again.

And that too is pain.

The human who smells like smoke and brings him bowls of water tries to soothe him, but he will not be soothed. Everything around him is wrong. It is as if the world has worn thin.

Then a new scent catches his nose, and he raises his head. Lightning, frost, dust. Familiar.

He remembers.

The world _is_ thin, because this is not the world. This is a dream, like the dreams of running and chasing he has sometimes, but it is not _fun_ like those dreams.

He shoves himself to his feet. The dream tries to convince him that he is sick, but he is not sick. He is well, better than well, and they are down a very strange hole that smells like sunlight and mother's milk. His human needs him.

Lorn bolts out of memory, into the world.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

She tried on Mama's bracelets, one after the other, admiring the pale green one, the one black as soot. They were smooth to the touch and felt nice against her skin. She stuck one in her mouth, thoughtfully.

"Oh, baby girl, those aren't for chewing." Mama swooped in and the bracelets vanished. "Horace, really. Leandra was struggling even with just Etain. Now, with the twins...her letters sound desperate. Surely we can do _something_."

"I'm not going to let you risk yourself to the roads," Papa said. Kathil scooted over to him, and he picked her up and sat her on her lap. She grinned and sniggled into her father's broad chest. His voice was like distant thunder, and his beard tickled the top of her head. "Not in your condition. Lothering's weeks away from here."

"Then we can send them something—money, people—" Mama stopped, and shook her head. She picked up her comb again, pulling her hair over her shoulder. It made little crackling and snapping noises as she attacked it with the comb. "I know you hate my family, and maybe you're right. But Leandra is my _twin_ , Horace. She needs me."

"She's the one who married an apostate," Papa said. "I told you that I wasn't going to let them leech off of you, and I still stand by it. They were sucking you dry when I met you, Amell. This may just be a ploy to draw you in again."

Mama's voice cracked, and Kathil sat up, alarmed. "Mother and Father are both dead, and Leandra and Kennit are the only family I have left outside of Kirkwall. Surely it wouldn't do so much harm to help them. Kennit is useless, I know, but Leandra has never asked for anything—not from us, and not from Gamlen. That she's come so close to begging means that things are truly desperate for her." She was braiding her hair, her fingers moving so quickly that Kathil thought it must be magic, how the linen-colored hairs wove themselves together. Shesen told her stories about how princesses had hair that would braid itself, and Kathil believed that her mother _must_ be a princess. "Please, at least consider it. Maybe you can have a word with Bryland?"

"Maybe." Papa put his arms around Kathil, and she relaxed against him, reassured. "I'll think about it. No promises, though."

Mama tied the end of her braid with a red ribbon, and came over to them. She bent over and kissed Kathil on the cheek. Kathil reached out and patted Mama's stomach, which was round and both taut and soft at the same time. Her little brother or sister was in there, Mama said. Growing big and strong so they could be born and be Kathil's friend. "Go downstairs," she said to Papa. "I'll be down in a little bit." She kissed Papa, lingering a little as if the kiss were a question.

"Where are we going?" Kathil asked.

"The ice races," Papa said. "Maybe this year I'll take a run myself and show all the young bucks how it's done."

Mama laughed and kissed Papa. "You'll break your neck and then where would we be? Let the boys have their day, just like you had yours." Her voice was fond, and she kissed him again. "Go on, now. I need to find my gloves."

Papa stood, lifting Kathil up onto his shoulders. She giggled and fisted her hands in his hair, and ducked when they passed through the doorway and into the hall.

 _(She shouldn't be remembering this. All of this was taken away from her by the Circle. She was a mage, and mages had no family but the Circle, no home but the Tower.)_

When they got to the stairs that led down into the bailey, Papa put her down. "Keep one hand on the wall," he told her. "The steps are a little icy." She nodded; when she breathed out the white clouds of her breath hung on the air. She swiped one hand through the cloud, watching it eddy where her fingers passed through.

The air bit at her cheeks and nose, and she concentrated on keeping herself upright as she climbed down the stairs on her short legs. Once they were in the bailey Papa picked her up again. He started talking to Ser Lathir, who was wearing that armor with a long skirt that always made her giggle to see it. _It's not nice to laugh at the Templars,_ Mama always said. _Besides, little one, it is best that you never bring yourself to their attention._

So she covered her mouth with her hands and snuggled into her cloak, safe in her Papa's arms.

Mama was coming down the steps, taking them two at a time. Kathil freed a hand from the folds of her cloak and waved. "Mama!"

Mama waved back, taking her hand from the wall to do so. Papa called, "Amell, be careful—"

 _(No.)_

And she was falling, coming down hard with a crack that sounded like the world ending. Kathil screamed—Papa was running towards the steps—Mama was tumbling down them, limp as a rag doll, and there was blood—

 _(She fought, struggling not to see._ This is the past. This is not real. Not here. Not now.

 _Now she had her own daughter to protect, and no power or principality could hold her from that.)_

She turned away from her mother's open eyes that stared into nothingness and tore herself out of her father's hands. Around her was the cracking sound of wings spreading, an alien song rising.

Kathil's wings bore her upward, her dream-body opening around her into a form both familiar and terribly strange.

* * *

 _Leliana:_

Someone was whispering, "I killed them. I killed them. I killed them."

It took her a moment to realize that it was Keili speaking. Around her, prone forms were stirring in the oppressive darkness; the torches had gone out. That awful sense of presence was still there, unmoving.

She had fought through a dream of Marjolaine that was less a dream than a memory, re-experiencing the events leading up to Leliana's departure for Ferelden with an unsettling vividness. She hadn't realized until she'd been thrown into a cell that she wasn't living the memory for the first time.

"Everyone all right?" That was Kathil. "Andraste's _knickers_. That was..." She trailed off, sounding lost. Then she muttered a word and a flare of magelight illuminated her hand and face. She sent it flying away from her fingertips, and it brightened until they were all illuminated in a sickly greenish glow.

Zevran was stirring, and when he sat up he reached for Kathil, wordless. She scooted over to him, and put her hand in his. Around them, the others were sitting up; Keili was rocking back and forth, her arms around her knees and her eyes screwed tightly shut, whispering incomprehensibly. Jowan had put his back against the wall, and stayed silent. Ville stood and stretched. "Well. _That_ was interesting."

Sigrun was rubbing her temples. "Felt like I got hit over the head. I was remembering my funeral, for some reason. Ow."

"Now what?" Bran asked. He'd taken off his helmet; he looked at Keili and worry creased his brow. "Um...I don't think she's all right."

"See if you can find out what's wrong with her." Kathil stood, and then hauled Zevran up beside her. Lorn shoved his head against her hip, and she scratched absently behind the dog's ears. "I have to figure out how to talk to this thing."

" _Talk_ to it?" Zevran looked at her askance. "Should we not be working on how to eliminate it?"

Leliana pulled herself to her feet. "I'm not sure it _can_ be eliminated. Remember the altar we saw on the way down here? It was dedicated to Korth the Mountain-Father, and all of the statues and the scripts on the walls concern him, I think. It might not be him—but there might be a reason that the Avvars worshiped him here."

"Like trying to put a sword through the heart of a storm," Kathil said. "We'd just end up pissing it off. Besides, I don't think it means us any harm. I've met things like this that did mean me harm. I think that was its version of a greeting."

"I hope it doesn't try to say anything _else_ to us, then," Sigrun said. "We were out for four hours. Anything could have come up and had us for a snack."

There was a muffled sniffling coming from Keili, and Leliana glanced over at her. Bran had his arms around her, patting her back awkwardly, but he looked intensely confused. "Is she wounded?" Leliana asked.

He shook his head. "No, she...just grabbed me and started crying." He glanced down at Keili's head. "Er...what am I supposed to do?"

"Just keep on as you are," Leliana said. She climbed to her feet. "Dearest, exactly what do you propose we do here?"

"Give me a little." There was a look on the mage's face that Leliana recognized, the abstraction of desperately going through alternatives and discarding them one by one. She sighed, and rounded her shoulders. "I wish Cullen were here. Bran, you'll have to do."

The Templar Warden looked uncomfortable. The suggestion that he might substitute for Cullen in _any_ way appeared to make him want to run for the hills. He stayed in place only by what appeared to be a supreme effort of will. "What are you going to want me to do?"

"When I tell you to close the Veil, I am going to need you to do the cleansing, and then I'm going to need you to hold it, hard. We may be running at the time, so it will be...challenging. Jowan, I need you to keep an eye out for anything that might decide to sneak up on us. I'm going to be hanging out a sign that proclaims what a good meal I'd make. Unfortunate, but necessary." He nodded to her. "Keili...oh. _Sod._ "

Keili had stopped sobbing, though she was still clinging to Bran, shivering and staring into the darkness. "Bran. Let her go." Bran looked more than happy to do so, though he had some trouble with getting himself free from her. He left her crouched on the floor and stepped away.

Kathil walked up to her. In the green light she'd cast, she looked old, and tired, and hard. The look on her face was one that Leliana imagined every Warden-Commander had worn at one time or another, anger and exhaustion commingled and mixed with a certain amount of disappointment. "Keili," she said. The woman crouched on the floor didn't respond. " _Warden-mage Keili._ "

Keili looked up.

The crack of Kathil's hand across Keili's face echoed as she went spinning away and sprawled on the stone floor. The mage tried to pick herself up—to run or to face her commander, Leliana did not know—but Kathil grabbed the collar of her robes and hauled her upright, then spun the other woman to face her. "You can fall apart on your own time. Right now, one of the principalities of the world is _right over there_. If you fail to control yourself it _will_ have you for lunch, even if it doesn't mean to, and then the rest of us will die. Control yourself, or by Andraste _I will gut you rather than let you get us all killed._ "

Keili swallowed, and breathed in. "Yes, Commander," she said in a voice that was just barely a squeak. Behind her, Bran's hand had gone to his sword. He glanced down at where he gripped the hilt, bewildered.

"Good," Kathil said. "You're firepower, and I mean that literally. If something comes after us, pour on the pain. Jowan will point you in the right direction. Don't worry about hitting me." She turned away and surveyed the rest of them. "If I tell you to run, you _run_. You're going to be seeing and hearing some strange things, but if this goes well we should all come out the other side whole."

"If it goes badly?" Sigrun asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "How deep are we down?"

The little dwarf shrugged. "Maybe half a mile. Why?"

"Just hope it doesn't go badly, then, because if it does we're all dead." Kathil turned away from them. "Jowan, I need more light."

He nodded and began to cast the magelights; his were a warm orange almost like sunset, strengthening as they flew upwards. Kathil's own magelight winked out.

She bent over and started unlacing her boots. They all watched in uncomfortable silence as she pulled off her boots and socks, then stepped barefoot into the great echoing hall into which even the strongest light was swallowed.

Behind Leliana, Ville spoke. "Are you _entirely_ certain she is sane, Zevran?"

At that moment, Leliana thought that all of them were asking themselves that question.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

Every step took her farther into the center of the creature's power.

The soles of her feet tingled in warning. She paused and opened herself to the darkness, just a little; just enough to determine that this was not precisely an old road they were standing on, but it was close enough to suffice. Whatever lived in this place, it was nothing she had ever encountered before.

"My name is Kathil Amell, Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, Enchanter, Thrice-bound. I have come to seek counsel. Who lives here, down in the deep?"

She pushed power into each word, and opened her senses a little bit more. The presence of whatever lived here was not getting any easier to bear. It weighed on her, reminded her of countless days of travel, of magic she had spent too much of her soul to learn.

The sound that rumbled out of the darkness was like stones screaming, a guttural rumble and crack. _Memory,_ it said. _I remember. I wake._

Something brushed her face in the darkness. Kathil fought not to flinch. She'd thought she'd known what she was doing, but alone in the darkness with the presence all around her, she realized that she did not. No Templar's power would be able to hold off the presence even for a moment. They would not be able to run fast enough to get away from it.

She was going to have to negotiate, then, and pray it was in a good mood.

"Are you the guardian of this place?" she asked.

The presence seemed to pause to think about this for a moment. _I am this place. I am Memory. I am That Which Sleeps Without Sleeping. I am Watchfulness._

"The Fortress of a Thousand Vigils," Kathil murmured. "I understand."

Something brushed Kathil's face again. Then, her hair. The darkness was a thousand feathers, each of them touching her gently. The sense of being studied nearly flattened her, and her skin was crawling.

 _Who are you to wake me?_ The darkness was almost querulous. _I drink you, little mortal. I drink your memory. I will keep you safe within me forever._ It paused. The touching was growing intense, and the sensation was turning from soft-edged feathers to broken, rough-edged stones. She felt a particularly sharp one open a stinging cut on her cheek. _What are you?_

Kathil dropped to one knee and put her left palm flat against the ground. The scars on her shoulder and her face flared in pain, and she knew that they were shedding an icy light. "Mage," she whispered. "Warden. Demon-haunted." She swallowed. "A thing made for wolves to fear."

She curled her hand into the stone, and her fingers passed into the Fade.

Urthemiel's shadow unfurled around her, violet against black.

She waited a moment, for what she was not sure. She could feel nothing but the presence; its power was so immense she was blinded to all else. If there were demons or Unwilling on the other side of the Veil from her, she would never be able to tell before they attacked.

Her voice was steady in the darkness. "I name you Memory and call you Vigilance, you who were once named Korth the Mountain-Father. I command the fortress that you bear on your back. We have a common goal and a common need." The shadow of Urthemiel flexed its wings, tail lashing once. It was taking the brunt of Memory's interest, easily handling a regard that would have snuffed her out. Old Gods did not buckle easily, even when they were merely shades. "This place shelters my people, the Grey Wardens. There is a storm coming. We must be ready."

The presence seemed to be considering her words. _You woke me._

One did not lie to a creature like this. "I did, but accidentally. There are mages here of rare power. We are likely to trouble your surface from time to time."

There was a long pause then. When the voice returned, it was a distant avalanche. _You are a strange creature, mortal that is not a mortal. It has been some time since the world has disturbed me. What do you wish of me, and what do you give in return?_

Her mouth was so dry, but she didn't dare lick her lips. "I offer a battle worthy of this place. It has only recently driven back a wave of twisted creatures. More will come, and others. What I want is your help in that battle, as you can give it."

 _I am bound to this place. My influence is limited. I watch. The mortals must fight their battles without me._ It sounded nearly regretful.

An idea entered her head. It was a terrible gamble, a desperate risk—and it might yet save them all. "Even that is enough. My blood and breath is sworn to the Order, and the Order holds this fortress. In a way, each member of the Grey is bound to you."

 _I see._ She realized that she had just _amused_ the creature. It is as if she had tickled a mountain's toes, and heard it laugh. _It is too clever for its own good. The terms are acceptable._

"And you will let me and mine walk from here unharmed, and only watch until the day when I call you."

 _I watch. But one of your number will stay behind, with me. That is the price for the lives of the rest._

"I do _not_ sacrifice my own—"

 _It is not your choice._ The presence bore down on her, freezing her in place, and even the shadow of the dragon around her stilled. She could feel Urthemiel thrashing desperately, trying to free itself. _That one will do. I will see you again, Commander of the Grey._

Then the presence lifted, and Kathil realized that she was pressed flat to the floor. Her head was ringing, and her chin felt—strange. She touched her face, and felt blood. She'd cut herself when she'd fallen.

Urthemiel's shadow was gone. She picked herself up, holding one hand against her chin. A spell cast right here would likely not be a good idea, and she was unlikely to bleed to death from a split chin. Swallowing dread, she turned to those who had followed her down into darkness.

They were looking around too, and Leliana said, "Bran. Bran is gone." Her voice was trembling.

Kathil closed her eyes. "Korth was a god of battle, among other things." Bran had been the only warrior down here. Sigrun might have sufficed, but Kathil thought that her dwarven resistance to magic would have made her a less attractive choice. And for one tiny, craven moment, she was _so glad_ that she had not brought Cullen down here with them.

Terrible, to lose one of her own, and only feel that black gratitude that it hadn't been someone she loved.

"He's beyond our reach now," she said. Blood was dripping over her fingers, falling to the floor. "We shouldn't linger here."

They left the creature called Memory in its dark place in the earth, and began to walk through the winding tunnels that led to the fortress, and sanity.

* * *

 _Cullen:_

 _Maker's Breath, what is it_ now _?_

Lieutenant Maverlies was pelting towards him, but he didn't need her to tell him that there was trouble. The Veil was shuddering, rippling in protest. "Ser Cullen—in the outer ward—it's one of the mages!"

Anders or Kinnon, then. The rest of the mages were down beneath the Vigil, trying to sing a demon back to sleep. He grabbed his sword from the rack and started running, and Maverlies was beside him. They ran through the halls of the Keep and through the inner ward, passing unheeded through the gates.

The outer ward was a scene of panic and smoke, centered around something that looked far too much like a battlefield. There were people lying on the ground, most of them armored, most of them obviously dead, if the burned skin and open, staring eyes were anything to go by.

Anders was standing in the center of the battlefield, and light was leaking from his eyes.

That was _never_ a good sign. Reflexively, he reached for the cleansing, then paused. "What happened?" he asked Maverlies.

She shook her head. "I wasn't close enough. All I could see was that one of the other Wardens attacked Anders, and suddenly there were all of these _people—_ " She gestured at the bodies. "They came out of nowhere. None of them were anyone I'd ever met, not Wardens, not guards. And they were alive when I left to get you."

Nobody was approaching Anders. Though the guards in the outer ward all had their hands on their swords, none of them seemed to be willing to come close to him. The light that was coming from him was fading. " _Which_ Warden?" A terrible suspicion was descending upon him.

"Ser Rialt," Maverlies said. "Impossible to mistake that shield."

Rialt. One of the Templar Wardens. Someone Cullen didn't know nearly as well as he ought to have. Rialt had always been quiet and calm, someone who didn't make friends easily. He often slipped beneath notice in this fortress.

Three years ago, Cullen would have been absolutely sure what had happened—Anders had done something stupid, Rialt had attacked him, and Anders had killed him. But it wasn't three years ago, and there were things that just didn't _fit_. Like the fact that Anders was alive and Rialt was dead. Anders was _not_ Kathil. He hadn't spent years learning to fight off the effects of the cleansing, and he was no arcane warrior. And maybe Anders might have bested one Templar, but—

He paused, and counted bodies. Ten armed and armored men, in total. He hadn't noticed before, but a couple of them looked like they had been ripped limb from limb.

"Stay here," he told Maverlies, and walked forward.

Anders was looking around him with a stunned expression. His mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. Cullen drew near, feeling the way the Veil was still troubled around them. "Anders," he called as he stepped onto the scorched circle. "Anders, what happened?"

The healer took a step back, then another. His eyes finally focused on Cullen. Panic wrote itself across his features; a spasm passed through him, shaking his shoulders.

The mage whirled, and ran.

Cullen's first instinct was to give chase. He checked the impulse; Anders was a Warden, not a fugitive apostate. Cullen had no backup but the guards, and he thought that leaving the fortress right now, with Cerys in the care of some of Varel's guards, might be a very bad idea. Especially alone. They were near the gate, and Anders faced no resistance when he fled beneath the portcullis and vanished.

Maverlies was standing next to him, now. "Let him go," he said. "Let's search the bodies. I want to know who these people were and what they were doing here. If we can find someone who was closer, who would have heard if there were words exchanged, I want to talk to them."

She nodded and began to direct her people. Half an hour later, he'd talked to five people who hadn't seen anything but the first explosion, two who had thought they had heard an argument, and one old man who insisted that the Maker Himself had ridden out of the sky on a spotted pony and struck the armored men down.

The last person he had to talk to was a young woman who looked like she was scared just about out of her wits. "That…that was my tent," she said, pointing at a crumpled ruin among the char. "I was just coming out with my laundry, and I saw a man in mage robes standing by the road. He…looked like he was having a conversation with himself. Then he started glowing." She swallowed and wrapped her thin arms around herself. "Then another man, one in armor, came up with his sword out and attacked him. He yelled something, and all of a sudden there were _so many_ of them. So many swords. They were all shouting and the air went funny, and the man in the mage robes started yelling back. He looked _mad_. Then I ran away as fast as I could." She looked at her former tent. "Everything I owned was in there."

"Did the other men seem to know the first two?" Cullen asked.

"They knew the man in armor, I think. They came out when he shouted. Something about abominations. The mage was yelling something about it being unjust…I remember he used that word, _unjust_. I thought it was strange. "

He talked to her for a few more minutes, but she truly hadn't seen much. When Maverlies returned, she was shaking her head. "I think a couple of them might have been Templars, they had that look about them. The rest were bruisers, probably local. Except for one. That one had this hanging around his neck, under his armor." She handed him a pendant on a tarnished silver chain.

One side was covered with symbols that Cullen couldn't read, some sort of writing, he thought. The other side had a raised symbol on it. An open eye, surrounded by flames.

There was a chill between his shoulders, and a cold dread in his gut. "Maker's _Breath_."

"That's what I said." Maverlies was looking at the Seeker emblem, rubbing her forearm absently. The sound of her glove on mail grated softly. "Does this have something to do with the list the Warden-Commander asked Garavel to put together?"

"Yes." He saw no point in lying.

She breathed out. "It's wrong, the Chantry harassing the Wardens. Do they have no gratitude?"

That, at least, was an easy answer. "No. They don't. Have the bodies buried in the potter's field, Lieutenant. Once the Commander returns, I'm sure she'll have an opinion on what should be done." He folded his hand over the Seeker's emblem. "If anyone asks, tell them…" What? What, precisely, _could_ they say? "Tell them everything is under control."

Even if that was an utter lie.

 _Kathil, you had better get back soon._

* * *

 _Kathil:_

"You can't _do_ this!"

She was beyond anger. Beyond fear, beyond doubt. _I name you Memory and call you Vigilance._ "I can. Within these walls, I am the single authority. Revered Sister, you are no longer wanted. Get. _Out_."

The Sister's eyes were wide. She took a step back without volition. "The Grand Cleric—"

"The Grand Cleric and I will have words, one of these days. The Chantry has no authority over the Wardens, and within these walls it has no sovereignty. Run to Denerim. Tell the Grand Cleric that this campaign of harassment of Grey Wardens will not be tolerated. No person officially attached to the Chantry will be allowed within these walls." She pointed at the door. "Out, before I have you removed."

Possibly it was the fact that Cullen and Zevran were standing at her shoulder or the fact that there were small sparks dancing along the backs of Kathil's hands that made the woman look at them as if she saw her own death standing with them. The Revered Sister was pale as snow, and she swallowed convulsively.

She went, and closed the door behind her.

"That's the last," Kathil said into the incense-scented quiet of the chapel. "It's done."

"Have you thought about what comes next?" Cullen asked. "We're going to lose a lot of people, I think. I've heard the rumors spreading, that you're an abomination and you're about to induct everyone in the fortress into some sort of bizarre Antivan sex cult."

Zevran chuckled. "That sounds like an interesting idea, no? Perhaps we should."

She raised an eyebrow as she turned to face the two of them. "Do the Antivans _have_ bizarre sex cults?"

"Not that I have ever encountered personally, more's the pity. We could invent one." He smiled at her, and the tension in her chest eased slightly. "Though the question still stands. What now?"

Kathil ran her hands over her hair. "Now we live our lives, and wait. There is work to be done. A wedding celebration to hold, so I hear." She smiled at Zevran. "And one day, the Chantry will come knocking on our door, and it is our job to be prepared. We find more Wardens and do what we can to rebuild the Order, and this arling. We put down the darkspawn when we find them. Wait for Anders to resurface." She twitched the corner of her mouth and gestured at the pews. "I'm sure I can talk Leliana into holding study sessions in here on the Chant of Light. I'm not outlawing the Chant. Just the Chantry."

Zevran chuckled and stepped forward, sliding an arm around her waist. She leaned into his wiry solidity. "You are a heretic," he said. "I approve."

Cullen slid in on her other side, and wrapped his arms around both of them. "So are we all."

She put the side of her head against his shoulder. "There is something you should know, the two of you. The presence…whatever it did to us completely ripped away the spells on me, and on Jowan and Keili. We all have our memories back now." The three of them had talked about it briefly on their way back up into the fortress. "I think we can assume that the other parts of that particular spell are gone, as well."

The two men were silent for a moment, considering the implications. "Well," Zevran said. His lips were almost touching her ear. " _I_ do not mind the idea of more children, but you are the one who must carry them."

"Some day, maybe," she said. "We'll see. Now, I suppose there's probably an emergency somewhere in the fortress that needs attention."

None of them moved.

They were alive, and as whole as they ever were. The late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the rose window of the chapel, bathing them in color. All sound from beyond the chapel was muffled by thick stone walls, but instead of feeling suffocating, the silence felt as if it were anticipating something.

 _What is born here, in this room, and what dies?_

She did not have the answers, only suspicions. Even Andraste had been considered a heretic, in her own time.

Kathil closed her eyes.

 _Let them come._

 _We will be ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ….whew. This pair of chapters was difficult. But I wanted to finish them because I, like many folks in this fandom, am going to be spending the next couple of weeks playing DA2. Updates will resume likely around the end of March.  
> I just want to thank everyone again who’s stuck with me this far, and left reviews and favorites and such. It’s a pretty wild ride from here till the end.


	11. Difficult As The Silence After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This chapter contains a discussion of rape, though no real details. Proceed at your own risk.

_But there was no answer;  
_ _only howling, empty and dry.  
_ _We are cracked at our center, we bleed,  
_ _we die, mortals, we who are deathless—_

 __

 _We fail and fall forever, dying without ever reaching death._ _  
__Our Maker has turned his face from us._ __

_We end without ending._ __

_—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza four: of the Black City_

 

* * *

 _Jowan:_

Kathil was giving him a calm, long look.  “It’s strange.  I almost think you’re avoiding me.”

He stretched out his legs in front of him.  They were in the Warden-Commander’s office, which meant that this was an _official_ talk.  It had been a few days since they had come up from beneath the Vigil, long enough to get used to suddenly having memories of his family he hadn’t had access to for years.  He’d remembered a little, more than most: that his family had turned on him when they’d found out he was a mage, that his mother had marched him into the nearest Chantry herself.

He hadn’t remembered that his older sister had tried to bodily block the door to keep their mother from getting out, that his two younger brothers had watched wide-eyed as Mother had hit his sister with a fire poker and then stepped across her prone form as she writhed in the doorway, holding her probably-broken arm.  His father had told Jowan that he was no longer any son of his as his mother had dragged him out the door.

He wondered what happened to his father, if his sister had grown up and married.  If any of them had survived the Blight.  He wouldn’t mind seeing his sister, but Maker only knew where she was now.  They had lived somewhere in the Dragon’s Peak bannorn, but Dragon’s Peak had been overrun during the Blight and most people had fled if they could.

Jowan had been six years old.  He probably wouldn’t be able to find the place again if he tried.

He blinked and brought himself back to the present.  “Sorry.  I’ve had some things to think about.”

Kathil signed and put her elbows on her desk, dropping her head to knead the base of her skull with thin fingers.  “I still want to know what you and Anders’ problem with each other is.  I have to assume that Anders is going to resurface some day, and when he does I’m going to have to talk to him about it.”  She lifted her head, and sat back in her chair.  “So.  Talk.”

 _She is going to kill me._

“You don’t want to know,” he said.  “Honestly, you don’t.  Anders is gone, at least for the moment.  Can we just let it lie?”

“I know _lots_ of things I don’t want to know, Jowan.”  The scarred corner of her mouth twitched.  “I’m good at it.”

He glanced at the window, trying to calculate how long it would take him to change into a sparrow and fly out.  It was open, at least; the day was a balmy one, at least for this time of year.  He came to the conclusion that, no, he wouldn’t be able to get out before Kathil managed to take him down.

“You haven’t exactly been forthcoming, yourself,” he said.  “Your scars were glowing, when you...did whatever it was you did.  That’s not precisely _normal_.”

“Spellscar.  It doesn’t usually glow.”  She blew a breath out her nose, almost a snort.  “It’s a very long story.  Suffice it to say that I stumbled across something that the Tevinter magisters have evidently kept as a secret art for many years.  It was a last resort when my face was half torn off and I was alone.  And _you_ are trying to deflect me, Jowan.”

“You noticed.”  He gave her half a smile.  “It started back about...maybe a year and a half before I started seeing Lily.”  Though he wished he could calm his voice, the words that had been trapped in him too long shook him like an aspen leaf.  “About three months after you and Sati got together.  I’d kept on finding references in books that had been excised.  Little things blacked out, or pages missing.  It wasn’t too long before I started seeing a pattern.  It was all about blood magic.  I felt...called, I suppose.  I thought I could prove that blood magic wasn’t automatically evil, that you didn’t have to contract with demons to learn it.  I was young.  I thought a lot of stupid things.”  He grimaced.  “I told Anders that I wanted to steal some of the books on advanced healing, that there was no way that Wynne was going to let me have at those stacks before I was done with her class.”

“I remember that,” Kathil said.  “You asked Sati first, and she told you to go butter up Anders for them, since he had access and was already Harrowed”

“Well, the books on advanced healing were right next to the books on blood magic.  I grabbed one healing book to put on the top of my stack.  Anders was—distracted.”  He took a deep breath.  “We were in the Senior Enchanter carrels.  On the way in, we passed...”  He swallowed.  “Uldred was in one of the carrels.  With Sati.  He must have paid off or controlled the Templars somehow.  He was...there’s no good way to say this.  He was raping her.  With both his body and with magic.”

The words fell flat into the empty space between them.  Kathil was staring at him, and her knuckles went white as she gripped the edge of the table.  “He was _what_?”

“I’m sorry, Kathil.  I—thought at first that she was just trying to get into Uldred’s good graces.  I was going to confront her.  Anders dragged me away and explained what was really going on.  He did it to _all_ of them.  Male, female, it didn’t matter.  He controlled that whole coterie with it.  The moment any of them even breathed a word was the moment they died.  Uldred would point the finger and that would be that.  Anders knew.  He did what he could to help them, afterwards—Uldred would hurt them.  But he never opened his mouth.  Never told Irving.”

“And you never told _me_.”  There was a tightly controlled fury in her voice.

“You would have confronted Uldred.  And you would have _died_.”  He shook his head.  “It wasn’t right.  But I knew that day that I was getting out of the Tower, no matter what it took.  I couldn’t save Sati, but maybe I could save myself.”  Jowan shook his head.  “When I started practicing what I’d found in the books, I...experimented on a Tranquil.  I was trying to undo the brand, restore his connection to the Fade.  I thought if I understood the ritual well enough to reverse it, I could somehow put together a spell to make the ritual not work in the first place.  I made mistakes.”  He had been so young and so very, _very_ foolish.  “I nearly killed the Tranquil I experimented on.  Anders knew it was me who had done it, even though the culprit was never officially found.  If he’d talked, I would have pointed out who’d gotten me the books in the first place.”

“Anders never did have the courage of his convictions,” Kathil said.  He could see her descending in a dangerous calm, the stillness of ice.  “So there it is.  You both knew that Uldred was doing this to Sati, and you both did _nothing_ except work on getting yourselves out of the Tower.  Did she even make it to her Harrowing, Jowan?”

“No.  She didn’t.”  He forced the words out of his throat where they tried to stick.  “She talked to someone, or tried to.  The next thing anyone knew, she was gone.  You’d have to ask Anders for specifics.”

Kathil went white; her scar was flushed a deep, angry red.  “She asked me for help.  Maker’s _Tits_ , she asked me for _help_.  I thought she was asking for help with her _Harrowing_.  I told her she would be fine, that she didn’t need my help.  She was better than me.  Next thing I know, she’s _gone_.  I cried on your shoulder and you didn’t say a sodding word.”

“What could I have said?”  Jowan straightened in his chair.  “‘Sorry Sati’s dead, but I think you should know that she was a blood mage and controlled by Uldred’?  So many apprentices were dying, that year.  I didn’t want you to be one of them.”

“And she kept it from me.”  Sorrow was beginning to crack her calm.  “She kept it from me for a _year_.  I knew—I knew there were times when she didn’t want me to touch her, but I thought...”  She trailed off.  “I don’t know what I thought.”

In her voice was a touch of the girl she’d been before her Harrowing, before the world had gone so strangely tilted.  The girl who’d had such poor control over the fire side of Primal that she’d burned off most of her hair no less than three times, the girl who had never seemed able to make or keep friends but for Jowan and eventually Sati.  His prickly, mercurial, imperious sister, a ghost of a memory of the sister who had stood up for him once.  

 _I was going to carry this for you for the rest of my life._

But he hadn’t gotten to, had he?  Sodding _Anders_.  Anders wasn’t going to have to face the fallout of this.  Anders was _gone_ , and like so much in life that was unfair as well.  

Anders had run.  Like Anders _always_ ran rather than do the right thing or face the hard thing.

“If you don’t have any more questions, I should probably go,” he said.  

The sorrow was gone, submerged beneath a mask of icy anger.  “Get out of my sight.”

He got.

When he was halfway down the stairs, he heard a muffled rumble.  He quickened his pace.  Cullen might be in the hall.  Best to let him and Zevran try to calm her down.

A long howl came from above him—Lorn.  Jowan broke into a run.

Fortunately, both Zevran and Cullen were in the main hall, talking with a harassed-looking Varel.  “Kathil,” he said, pointing behind him.  “Her office.  She’s—upset.”

They were staring at him.  “What did you _do_?” Cullen asked.  He was rocking Cerys, who was making fretful noises.

Jowan shook his head.  “Later.  Just—she needs you.”

 _She may self-destruct and take this fortress with her._

It might have been the look on his face, or the way he shifted from foot to foot that convinced them that this was truly urgent.  The two men didn’t stay to argue; Cullen handed Cerys to Jowan and the two of them left.  Fiann loped after them.  Jowan breathed a sigh of relief and raked his hand through his hair.  

“What _did_ you do?” Varel asked.  His voice echoed in the great hall.  A burning log in the great firepit in the center of the room collapsed and sent sparks crackling up towards the vent in the roof.

Jowan shook his head.  “A very long story, I’m afraid.”  There was another rumble, and even this far away the air was abruptly tinged with ice.  He looked down at Cerys, who had stopped fussing.  She was waving one chubby hand in the air, blinking in fascination.  “She and I knew each other before we were Wardens.  In the Tower.”

“So I’d surmised,” Varel said.  “It was something you did to her back then?”

He turned towards the fire, looked at the flames and the curls of smoke floating upward.  “Let’s just say that there were monsters in the Tower.  Not all of them were demons.”  He took a long breath.  “I’m going to take this little one and go get some air.”

He left before Varel could ask any more awkward questions.  Out in the inner ward, he wandered towards the courtyard end of the ward, dodging guards.  Maybe Herren had gotten in something new.  

When he got to Wade and Herren’s stall, though, Keili was there.  “I _know_ you can’t enchant it,” she said to Wade, who was scowling under that enormous moustache.  “But a well-built staff is hard to come by.  Please, Wade?”

The smith sniffed.  “I’ll think about it,” he said.  “The _Commander_ carries a sword, you know.  And _she’s_ a mage.  I could make you something _spectacular_ if you wanted a sword.”

“The Commander is _not_ the usual run of mage,” Keili muttered.  She turned away from Wade, towards Jowan, and came up short.  “Oh.  I didn’t see you come up.”

“You were a little involved,” he said.  “Look, if you need a new staff, I think there are some good ones in the armory.  Laurens seems to have been a collector.”

Keili scowled.  “Just _once_ in my life I want a staff that hasn’t been bled on by some other dead mage first,” she said.  “Something without any memories attached.  But...well.”  She shrugged one shoulder.  “The best smith in Ferelden doesn’t like the idea of making a masterwork staff.”

“They’re just so _boring_ ,” Wade said.  “They’re _sticks_.  I can’t work with _sticks_.”

Jowan raised an eyebrow.  “Have you seen some of the staves in the armory?” he asked.  “They’re all differently balanced, and some of them have beautiful inlays.  I even saw one with a blade on the end like a glaive or a fauchard.  We should see if there are any Dalish tribes in the area, Keili.  The best staves are all Dalish work.”

“Herren, are you _hearing_ this?  This _mage_ is saying that the _elves_ can do better work than I can.”  He fixed Keili with a dark look.  “You’ll have your staff.  And it will be _divine._ ”  

Herren, behind his table, only groaned.

“Ah, we should go,” Jowan said.  “Wade, thank you.”  He gave Keili a jerk of his head that meant _best get while the getting is good_ , and the two of them walked away, towards the cluster of houses that served as officer housing for the guard.  

“Thanks,” Keili said once they were out of earshot.  “I didn’t think I was ever going to get him to just make me the stupid staff.  I did go through the armory, but...all of the staves weren’t quite right, and I couldn’t help thinking that they’ve all belonged to mages who are dead now.  The best one was a _darkspawn_ staff, believe it or not.”  She shuddered.  “I couldn’t bring myself to take it.”

“Is there something wrong with your current staff?” he asked.  She wasn’t carrying one at the moment, which in itself was unusual.

“Something happened to it, down underneath the Vigil.  It’s...different now.  Not in a good way.”  There was a bench by a cluster of pines at one end of the ward.  Keili sat down on it, and Jowan followed suit.  He sat Cerys up on his lap.  The baby was gnawing on the sleeve of his robe, rendering it rather damp.  

“Are you all right?” he asked.  “I’ve barely seen you since we came back up.”  He’d barely seen _anyone_ ; he’d told Kathil the truth when he’d said he had a lot to think about.

Keili looked away from him.  It was answer enough.  “I’ve always had this sense that I am secretly a terrible person.  That being a mage is a curse, a punishment for something wrong I did.  I always hoped that maybe, if I prayed hard enough, believed hard enough, that the Maker would forgive me.  Now...I remember what I did.  I don’t think there’s enough forgiveness in Thedas for it.”  She was staring down at her boots.  

“What was it?” he asked, then saw her flinch.  “Sorry.  I won’t pry.  I’m just no stranger to doing terrible things, myself.”

She shook her head slowly.  “No, I...it’s just hard, is all.  Knowing.”  She took a long breath.  “I don’t know how old I was.  Maybe six or seven, old enough to start helping with milking the goats, not old enough to chop wood.  My oldest brother had a bad temper.  He was big, and strong.  Everyone said that he should be a soldier, but when he signed on with the bann they sent him home inside of a season.  Things got really bad, after that.”

“How bad?” Jowan asked.

“I don’t think there was anyone in the family he didn’t hit, except me.  My father had just died, and Rolan was the only person in the house bringing in any coin.  He never told us where he got it.  I think he’d fallen in with some bandits.”  She swallowed.  “One night, he was angry about something.  I don’t know what.  It was lambing season, and one of the ewes died so we brought in the lamb to get it warmed up.  Something about it enraged Rolan.  He...picked it up and threw it against the wall.  I tried to stop him.  I screamed at him, hit him, bit him.  He just kicked the lamb away, then grabbed me.”  Keili huddled in on herself, her voice full of unshed tears.  “He was going to kill me.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.  I...”  She bit her lip.  “That was the first time I ever did magic.  I burned him.  I filled the cottage with flame and he was screaming.”

Carefully, Jowan said, “You were a child, and it sounds like he got what he deserved.”

She closed her eyes.  “Maybe he did.  But my mother and my other brother and sister were sleeping in the back room, and the cottage was made out of wood.  The whole thing went up.  They never had a chance.  I got out, but...there was nothing I could do.  When the Templars came, I was filling buckets from the stream and throwing them on the fire.  My whole family was gone, and I killed them.  All because I didn’t want to be hit.”

Keili was shivering.  Jowan freed an arm and draped it across her shoulders.  She leaned into him, but she did not cry.  “You didn’t want to die.  None of us want to die.  It happens that way for a lot of us, I think.”

“How did you find out you were a mage?” she asked.

He grimaced.  “Some of the boys on the holding thought it would be fun to throw rocks at me.  I tried to set them on fire, but I missed and burned a field of wheat that my family was depending on to get through the winter.  My father disowned me, and my mother marched me to the nearest Chantry that night.”

“It’s so often fire,” Keili said.  “I wonder why?  I know why in _my_ case, I’m useless for anything not Primal.  But you’d think everyone else would have some variation.”

“I’ve heard stories of mages using ice as their first spell.  Or lightning.  Healing, in some cases.  But the magic seems to come out when we’re afraid, and when you’re that scared...”  He shrugged.  “It takes time to learn the subtle stuff.”

“If you can at all.”  She leaned her head against his shoulder.  He could feel her relaxing, just a little.  “First I’m cursed with magic.  Then it turns out that I’m not even a very good mage.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “When something needs to be burned, frozen, shattered, or lightninged to death, you’re the first person we go to.”

“But I can’t heal,” she countered.  “Can’t cast wards or hexes.  I took lessons with Ines but I kept killing her plants.  All I’m really good for is blasting things.  I’m a _weapon_.”

“So am I, if it comes down to that,” he said.  “I have more range but a lot less power than you do.  Blood magic has some applications that aren’t horrible, but at the end of the day what it’s really good for is killing people in awful ways.”

She stiffened slightly at the mention of blood magic.  “That should bother me more than it does,” she said after a moment.  “The Wardens use everything they can get their hands on, don’t they?  Even blood magic, even...whatever it is I am.”

“That’s about the size of it.”  Keili relaxed again.  “Do you remember the exercises they used to have us do as apprentices?  Passing magelights back and forth?”  He summoned one, balancing it on his fingertips.  Cerys gave a squeal of delight and reached for it; he raised it up out of her reach.  “Here.”

He flicked it toward her.  She caught it, the previously-orange light blushing a deep red, and tossed it back at him.  The light didn’t move more than two feet, from his right hand to her left.  The place where their powers touched was ragged, and the light flickered as it passed the boundary.

They passed the light back and forth a few more times.  “You’re trying to distract me,” Keili said.  

“Is it working?”  He smiled at her.  “To be honest, I needed some distraction, myself.  I told Kathil something she didn’t want to hear, earlier.  I’m wondering if she’ll decide to kill me after all.”

Cerys was wiggling toward Keili; she transferred the baby to her lap and set three magelights to spinning around her head, to Cerys’s immense delight.  “What did you tell her?” she asked.  “I can’t imagine it could be worse than being a maleficar.”

It was Jowan’s turn to study his boots.  “Do you remember Sati?” he asked.

“No...wait.  She was the tall one with all the hair, right?  Looked Rivaini?  I think I was in a study group with her for a while, until she got picked up by Uldred...oh.”  Keili went pale.  “She was one of his.”

He nodded.  “I knew some of what was happening to her.  Anders knew more.  Anders and I have never liked each other, because I was angry at him for not doing anything about it, and he was angry at me because I used him to get into blood magic.  He ended up covering for me on a few things, and he still resents it.”

Keili frowned.  “I knew Anders in the Tower, a little.  If he wasn’t up someone’s robes, he was mouthing off to the Templars.  I always thought he was just incapable of taking anything seriously, but if he knew about what Uldred was doing...maybe it was the only way he kept himself sane.”

“Maybe.  It was a hard secret to keep.”  Keili’s head was still on his shoulder, and it occurred to Jowan that this wasn’t a bad place to be at all, on a bench under a tree that smelled like wild places on a spring day that was very nearly balmy, with this woman, passing an infant between the two of their laps.  It had been a long time since he had touched someone even in friendship.  A few dalliances, here and there, but there were times when he missed the easy physical intimacies of the Tower.

He couldn’t hear any explosions from the direction of the keep.  He thought he’d stay out here for a while, anyway.

A cat trotted across the courtyard, tail held high.  “That looks like Anders’s cat,” Keili said.  “Here, kitty, kitty.”  She crooked a finger at the tabby, who paused and looked at them with interest.

“Anders had a _cat_?” Jowan asked.  It was really more of a kitten than a cat still, all lanky limbs and enormous golden eyes.  It sauntered over to them, tail curling as if it were asking a question.

“Petra found it on the farmhold we were hiding on over the winter, just a tiny thing.”  She shifted Cerys back over to Jowan’s lap, and reached down to let the cat sniff her hand.  “She thought that Anders was probably its best chance to survive.  He got really attached to it, even named it something unbearably silly.”  The cat rubbed the side of its face against Keili’s hand, closing its eyes in evident delight.  “I’ll feed it until he comes back.  Poor thing.”

Jowan wondered if _poor thing_ referred to the cat, or to Anders.

“And if he doesn’t come back?” he asked.  “I mean, from what we were told, how he left seemed a little _final_.”

Keili shrugged.  The cat jumped up onto her lap, purring like a small thunderstorm.  “Then I have a cat.  Maybe if Anders turns up somewhere, I’ll go bring Pounce to him.”  At Jowan’s look, she wrinkled her nose.  “Anders named him Ser Pounce-a-lot.”

“That’s...very Anders.”  He reached out to pet the cat, which was looking at him expectantly.  He was a little surprised when Pounce let him stroke his back, arching his spine up into Jowan’s hand.  “Well.  I suppose the Keep could always use another mouser.  I overheard one of the kitchen staff grousing about how mice had been getting into the flour stores.”

“Maybe I’ll go make their acquaintance,” Keili said.  “The cows are starting to come into milk, I can beg some cream from them.  Pounce is a little skinny.  Besides, it never hurts to have friends in the kitchen.”  She smiled and tipped her face upward, towards the sun.  “It’s so nice that spring’s finally here.  It feels like maybe the Maker has decided we’re all right after all.”

There was little enough forgiveness in the world, but she was right.  This place and this moment felt like a benediction of sorts, a kind glance, the world drawing in a breath.

 _Maybe it’s not possible for Wardens to be happy.  And maybe it’s not important that we are.  But it’s nice to pretend for a little bit that someone out there loves us and wants the best for us._

He could borrow a little bit of Leliana’s faith, for one afternoon.

* * *

 _Zevran:_

The worst was over and the Keep still stood, though how long that was going to be the case was anyone’s guess.

His Warden had not been in the stable of frames of mind since they had been down in the tunnels beneath the Vigil; Zevran had hoped that they would have a peaceful few days to let the memories fade.  Unfortunately, that had not come to pass.  At least Ville had made herself scarce.  He rather doubted he would be lucky enough to have her leave without further incident, but one could always hope.

He and Cullen knelt on the Warden-Commander's office, propping up Kathil between them.  All around them were shredded papers and overturned furniture, and two Mabari pressed against them back and front.  The smell of magic was choking in the small room, but Kathil herself was finally silent.  Shudders still ran through her.

They still did not know what this was about, except that it concerned Jowan.

And when she began to speak, to tell them what Jowan had told her, the end that her lover had come to and Jowan and Anders’s complicity in it—and Kathil’s own guilt—he began to understand.  He knew what it was like, to bear that burden.  So he murmured sweet nonsense into her ear, Lorn licked her face, and Cullen simply held her and set his forehead against the side of her head.

Eventually, the torrent of words slowed to a trickle, and then into silence.  “I’m all right,” she said, finally.  “Well.  I will be.”

Zevran kissed her temple.  “No more work for you today,” he said.  “We will take this afternoon and evening and spoil you most mercilessly, yes?”

“I can’t—”

“Kathil, you’re in no shape to do _anything_ ,” Cullen said.  Worry was clearly evident in his voice, and Zevran wondered what he was sensing that he could not.  “Please.”

She took a breath to object, then stopped.  “All right,” she said.  “Where’s Cerys?”

Zevran traded a glance with Cullen.  “I will go fetch her from her minder, yes?”  He left out the fact that they had handed the child to Jowan.   _In our defense, he_ is _her uncle._  He kissed Kathil’s temple.  “I will meet you in our rooms.”

They got Kathil to her feet and the Templar got her moving, hemmed in by worried Mabari who were hindering far more than helping.  Zevran left them then, heading towards the great hall, hoping that Jowan was still there.  He was disappointed, but Varel was still there and pointed the way.  Though the newly minted Arl had thousands of questions written on his face, he asked none of them.

It was best that way, after all.  There were some truths that did not need to be spoken.  Kathil had been clear that she had questioned Jowan, had not given him the option to keep his silence.   _He looked at me like he thought I was going to kill him for telling me,_ she had said. _When he was finished, I thought I might._

He walked into the long corridor that separated the hall from the inner ward, giving a wave to the guards on the door.  Varel had said Jowan had headed outdoors, and spring seemed to be shaking loose winter’s chill from the air at last.  Everyone who could make an excuse to be outside had done so.

It likely should not have surprised him when Ville’s voice crackled from around the vicinity of his elbow, but he startled anyway.  “I believe I see why you enjoy her company, my thorn.  You did always have a taste for danger, and she is a walking death sentence.”  

He sidestepped and turned, coming down on his heels facing her.  Ville was straightening from where she had been crouched.  She wore a servant’s dress, and her hands were filthy once more.  He raised an eyebrow; she’d spoken in Antivan, and it was only remotely likely that the guards would understand a word they spoke.  “It has been years since you were entitled to comment on my affairs, Ville,” he said, answering in their graceful mother tongue.  “Do not presume, and I will return the favor.”

“Tch.  You have little to presume about me, my thorn.  I am not the one dallying in the public eye, and with _such_ a very visible mage.  A very intriguing gambit, I must say.”  Ville leaned against the wall, turning her head slightly to and fro.  Under one arm was tucked a long, thin bundle wrapped in burlap—the sword Vigilance, most likely.  “One might wonder what exactly it is you are up to.”

“I am up to something?  It is news to me, I fear.”  He glanced around; her accomplices were not in view, though he had to assume they were nearby.  “I am an upstanding citizen these days.  More or less.”

Ville snorted indelicately.  “Less rather than more.  I wonder if you appreciate the magnitude of the storm that is coming this way, Zevran.  I was no less than truthful when I spoke to you before.  If you choose to stand against it, you will be obliterated.”  Her mouth firmed briefly.  “You must consider practicality.  You are too fine a weapon to waste in this keep.”

“What would you have me do?” he asked, curious.  “I have given my oath, several times over.  I have married.  I have a daughter.  One would think that it is rather obvious that I have chosen my side.”

Ville’s hand was on the pommel of the knife she wore on her belt, her only visible weapon.  She ran a finger up and down the hilt, a gesture Zevran knew of old.  “The Shattered Rose could use your talents.  You were my best student, Zevran, before Rinna got hold of you.”

He flinched at Rinna’s name in Ville’s mouth.  “I am done with the Crows, Ville.  I resigned _most_ thoroughly, yes?”

“Yet I find you plying your trade for the Warden-Commander.”  Ville smiled, and her mouth was full of secret, well-remembered pleasures.  “Killing not for pay but for love.  Very romantic, my thorn.  Most men would content themselves with flowers.”

He ground his teeth and buried his irritation.  Getting angry at Ville was never a good idea.  “Most men are not married to the woman who killed the Archdemon.”

“True.”  But she was shaking her head.  “I told you that Rinna would ruin you, and you did not listen.  And I will tell you now that staying here in this keep will end you.  But you will not listen to that either, will you?”

He stared at his former teacher; she shifted her stance slightly.  The bewildering power of her presence tugged at the edges of his mind, made his belly tighten.  His body remembered the months he had spent in this woman’s care, learning the true trade of the flesh, learning to turn pain to pleasure and back once more.  “Ville.  What are you talking about?  You sound like a prophet.”

Ville turned away from him.  “The Blooded still believe they own you,” she said.  “The failure of their efforts to reclaim you is a public embarrassment.  Their patrons are questioning them.”

“I have been away from them for...five, six years, now?  They have tried to reclaim me, they have tried to kill me.  They failed.”  He shrugged.  “Surely I am not so important to them as that?  I am only one man, and I am no longer operating in Antiva.”

“Only one man, occupying a very prominent position next to the commander of one of the foremost forts in a nation that is poised to become a true power.  Ordinarily, the protection of the Wardens would be enough.  Now....the Blooded is a dying beast, and desperate.”  One corner of her mouth lifted momentarily.  “Your head would make an adequate trophy to forestall the inevitable for a few months.”

“I would prefer that it did not.  I am still using my head, after all.”  Ville snorted in response.  “Even if I am not, I would find it most inconvenient to be deprived of it.  And I doubt that the Blooded would enjoy at _all_ what Kathil would do in response.”

Ville tilted her head.  “You have much faith in her.”

Zevran shrugged.  “I know her.  Perhaps the least safe place in Thedas is between her and something she desires.  But...there is something to what you say.  An escape plan may be useful.”  He crossed his arms.  “Did you come all of this way because you were worried about me?”

The Crow laughed.  “No, my thorn, I did not.  Though it _would_ have been delightful had I managed to convince you to come back to Antiva with me.  As I said, I was following the Seeker.”  She lifted her chin slightly, shifting her weight.  “The Seeker happened to be the younger brother of the current crown prince of Antiva.  He would have been forced to leave the Chantry by his grieving family once another contract is carried out by the Shattered Rose.  Alas, with Edravad’s death, and that of his older brother....well, that family is _entirely_ out of heirs.  A pity for the Blooded.”  Her smile had gone vicious.  “So odd, that a Chantry Seeker would travel on a qunari ship—but not so odd once you realize that his family was in the midst of brokering an accord with the Tal-Vashoth.  Now...”  She shrugged.  “We leave it for the next prince to deal with.  But there will be no official harbor for the Tal-Vashoth in Antiva.  We have enough trouble without issuing a formal invitation for the rest of the qunari to invade.”

“And all in the guise of visiting an old friend,” Zevran said, impressed despite himself.  “You knew his target.  All you needed to do was wait for him to strike.”

“A stroke of luck, that he decided that the other Grey Warden mage was also a worthy target.”  Ville rubbed her thumb along her bottom lip.

Zevran narrowed his eyes.  “You do not believe in luck, Ville.”

Her lips twitched.  “I do not _trust_ in luck.  There is a difference.  Templars, they are so...twitchy, on occasion, especially when there are unrestrained mages running around.  Warden Rialt was pleased enough when word came to his ears that there might be those about who feared that the Warden’s mages were consorting with demons.  A whisper in his ear before we left for beneath the Vigil, and all was in motion.  A favor for you—Rialt was not, we might say, the most upstanding example of a Warden I have ever met.  Though I am surprised that the mage survived the tender attentions of the Seeker and his men.”

“You expected what—that the Keep’s guard would apprehend the Seeker?”

Ville leaned back against the crate behind her.  “My cohort would have taken care of him, but they had to lift not a finger.  The mage did the deed himself.  I do not know what that man is, my thorn, but be very glad that he has fled.”

He took a long breath.  “On consideration, I do not believe I will tell Kathil that you used one of her men to pull an Antivan political coup.  So, that done, I take it that you are departing?”

“I am.”  Behind the thick fall of her dark hair over her eyes, he saw a brief gleam as her eyes darted toward him and away.  She made a dismissive gesture with one soot-blackened hand.  “My companions and I will depart as soon as we are done speaking.  Should you ever find yourself in Antiva, come to Rialto and find the Shattered Rose.  Your talents would be put to good use for us.  And a mage’s talent would not go amiss, either.”  She sniffed gently.  “Your daughter would be protected by the finest blades Antiva has to offer, and there is no king or prince in Thedas who could touch her, much less a Knight-Commander.”

“Perhaps one day,” he said, remembering the key that hung on a chain under his shirt, an innocuous wooden box that was currently in Alistair’s possession.   _In case the worst happens,_ Kathil had said.  

He put it forcibly out of his mind.

“One day,” Ville echoed.  She pushed herself away from the crates and stepped close to him.  “Goodbye, my thorn,” she said, so close to him that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body.  “We will meet again.”  She did not kiss him; he did not kiss her.  Their lips brushed, but that was all.

She was honey wine and old blood on his lips, an ache all too familiar.  “I am patient,” she said, the words felt more than heard, breath caressing him briefly.

Then she was gone.

He did not bother to look for her.  Ignoring the stares of the guards who had witnessed the conversation (but with luck had understood none of it), he walked out beneath the great gate of the Vigil in search of his daughter.

* * *

 _Justinian, 9:35 Dragon_

 _Kathil:_

The green blush of spring strengthened as the land broke free of winter’s grasp, as the days and then weeks went by.  Leliana stopped using the polished stick to walk with; Varel settled into his role as arl.  Nathaniel and Oghren returned, fully of stories about the dwarf drinking his way from Rainesfere and back, and Nathaniel’s increasingly futile attempts to keep Oghren at least somewhat in line.  (No towns had burned down, which she gave Nathaniel full credit for.)  A few weeks later, Felsi arrived at Vigil’s keep, small son in tow.  

Albert died just before Nathaniel returned.  Without Anders to hold back the illness, the souring of the wound turned to blood poisoning, and there was at last nothing they could do to hold it back.  Delilah Howe haunted the halls of the Vigil like an empty-eyed spirit.  She was leaning on Nathaniel for emotional support, to a nearly obsessive extent.  There was nothing any of them could do but wait for time to pass and her grief to lessen.

There was a minor exodus from the keep, once word spread that Kathil had kicked the Chantry out on its ear.  The loss was more than made up for by the beginning of summer, as people who had various disagreements with the Chantry arrived.  Among those people were apostate mages, come in hope of finding shelter.  

Some of them—those unwilling to complete the Joining, mostly—Kathil sent to Orzammar, to Dagna.  Dagna’s Circle in the Stone provided the dwarves with an invaluable service, and the Chantry had no reach among the dwarves.  Some went through the Joining; those who survived, Kathil assigned to Ostagar and Soldier’s Peak with only a few exceptions.

The most heartbreaking were the parents who arrived with their newly-minted mage children in tow, often just ahead of the Templars.  In three months, there were seven children brought to the Vigil, the adults pale and strained, the children thin-faced and scared.  One boy was left at the gates with a note pinned to his shirt that said simply _better this than the Templars._

Kathil could not find it in her to turn them away.

There did not pass a week when the Templars did not turn up on her doorstep.  She spoke to them and sent them away.  They went when she told them to leave, for the moment.  She was under no illusion that calm words would work forever, but there was no sign of anything but a sullen resistance, and no more Seekers were sent.  

The great beast that was the Chantry was rousing, but slowly.  There was time, yet.

She sent people out on recruitment missions.  Sigrun went to Gwaren, Nathaniel to Dragon’s Peak, Cullen to Denerim and Highever.  Kathil, herself, did not step outside of the walls of Vigil’s Keep.  She argued coppers and silvers with Mistress Woolsey, sent letters to arlings that had offered aid but had not yet come through.  And all through this hummed preparations for a rather belated wedding celebration, the favor Leliana had asked of her just after she’d first arrived.  Kathil had never been able to deny the bard anything, after all.  It would be a homespun celebration, nothing like a Denerim ball.  The music would be provided by guards and merchants whose parents had taught them the fiddle and drum; the dances would be simple country dances, the drinks small beer and mead rather than brandy and wine.

Given her _last_ experience with a formal ball, Kathil was rather glad that the Wardens had no coin to spare for formalities and fripperies.

The invitations went with a caravan to Denerim, and from there were dispersed across Ferelden.  Dagna wrote back with her regrets, as did Petra and Guaire.  Many of the other invitations were not answered.

 _They will come,_ Leliana told her.   _I promise._

Now she was sitting in one of the courtyards of the keep, going through a basket of correspondence that she’d been putting off while keeping an eye on Cerys, who was alternately gnawing on a rag doll’s foot and her own toes, a look of concentration on her face.  Lorn lay nearby, watchful., and beyond him there were guards posted unobtrusively.  

It was full summer now, though so far the weather had remained mild and pleasant.  The same winds that brought bitter cold to Vigil’s Keep during the winter kept the keep cool during all but the height of summer.  The letter she pulled out of the basket next carried Alistair’s seal, and she tried not to sigh.  They’d carried on an interminable argument by letter for the last three months; Kathil had placed Alistair in an awkward position with the Chantry, and she refused to back down and apologize for kicking the priests out of the keep.  

She broke the seal and unrolled the letter.  It was shorter than most of them, and it was in Alistair’s own ragged hand.  She blinked as she read it.

 _Kathil,_

 _Anora has escaped.  We don’t know where she’s gone.  Please, if she comes there, don’t do anything foolish.  She still has supporters, some of them in very high places.  We are hoping she will leave for Orlais—otherwise she complicates an already touchy political situation._

 _She was last seen in the company of Erlina.  If she comes there, just try to hang onto her and send a messenger to me.  We’re trying to recapture her quietly, before she does any more damage than she already has._

 _We will be there for your celebration, by the by.  I believe most of Denerim is planning on descending upon you.  I hope you’re ready for the swarm._

 _Alistair._

She gnawed on a ragged corner of her thumbnail and reread the letter.  Kathil had _wanted_ to like the erstwhile Queen; they’d had quite a bit in common, and Anora had seemed in dire need of friends.  The problem was what it _always_ was, though.   _She looks at me like she thinks I might make a nice pet,_ she’d groused to Morrigan.  Whether it was because Kathil was a mage, or because she was a Warden, or because she was a commoner—whatever it was, Anora had looked at her as if she were a cat who someone had managed to teach a trick.  

Maybe Kathil would get lucky, and Anora would decide to light out for more pleasant pastures.  Somewhere _very_ far away, preferably.  She entertained herself briefly with the thought of Anora falling in with Rivaini pirates—what had that woman’s name been?  Isabela?  Ah, yes.  Anora and a whole _boat_ full of Isabelas...

“Commander?”

She blinked—there had been a most _delicious_ scene in her head concerning Anora using her wits to talk a pirate out of her blouse—and looked at Maverlies.  There was a particular expression of discomfort on her face that Kathil was all too familiar with.  “Let me guess.  We have Templars on our doorstep.  They’re a bit late.”  The last apostate had arrived almost a fortnight ago.  Usually, the Templars showed up within the week.

“Er.  Sort of.”  Maverlies shifted her weight.  “It’s...you’re just going to have to come and see.  They’re at the outer gates.  I, ah, took the liberty of notifying Ser Cullen.  He and Zevran will meet you there.”

Something twisted inside of Kathil; Cullen and Zevran usually left the Templars for her to deal with.  Which meant that this was no ordinary run of Templar.  “Thank you,” she said, and dropped the parchment into her basked.  “Would you do me the favor of calling a page to take this back to my office?”  She stood as Maverlies nodded, and scooped up Cerys.  Baby on one hip, sword on the other, Mabari at her side; if the worst happened, she was absolutely confident in her ability to defend Cerys.

There was a small crowd gathered at the gate of the inner ward.  There were enough people that she couldn’t see anything beyond them.  She made a beeline for Cullen and Zevran; from the way Zevran was standing with his weight forward, violence was a decided possibility.

As she approached, someone at the edge of the crowd noticed her, and nudged his neighbor.  Silence fell over the inner ward as the people in the crowd stepped back, and she got her first look at their visitors.

 _Blessed_ Andraste _, this is not good—_

Greagoir stood just on the other side of the gates, looking at her calmly.

She realized she had stopped walking, and there was probably a look of shocked horror on her face.  Lorn looked up at her from his place at her side, cocked an ear, and gave an interrogatory whine.  The alpha knight was here—was he a bad man?

“We’ll see,” Kathil told Lorn.  She put her free hand on his head, more to steady herself than to calm him.  Cerys was a warm weight on her hip.

She stepped forward, trying to ignore her jangling nerves.

“Knight-Commander,” she said, inclining her head.  “This is...unexpected.”

“ _Former_ Knight-Commander,” he said.  “I am retired.”  And _that_ evaluating look was _entirely_ familiar.

“Retired?  Do they even let Templars _do_ that?”  Then she blinked and shut her mouth, remembering a Templar guarding the door of the Grand Cathedral, still insistent on doing his duty even though he could barely remember his name.

They did retire Templars, but only after they ceased to be useful.

“In my case, I requested retirement after Guaire came back.  I was Knight-Commander for twenty-four years.  Guaire is more than capable, and I wanted a change of scenery, so to speak.”  Greagoir’s tenor voice was carefully neutral; Kathil wondered if it was very difficult for him to resist the urge to utter every sentence as if he were declaiming from the lectern of the Grand Cleric herself.  “Ser Mathias has been reassigned to Kirkwall, and I decided to accompany him to Amaranthine and consider my options.”

With a start, Kathil realized that there was in fact a young man standing at Greagoir’s shoulder.  He looked familiar.   _Mathias, Mathias...oh.  Right._  “Mathias,” she said to the Templar who she’d bested in a sparring match the last time she’d been at the Tower.  She briefly considered saying that it was good to see him again and dismissed the thought for being rather too much of a lie.  To Greagoir, she said, “I assume you’ve heard the current edict about the Chantry in force here?”

Greagoir’s eyes narrowed.  “I have.  I noticed the makeshift chantry just outside the walls.  Mathias will be staying there tonight.  I do not believe that the edict covers _former_ Templars.”  He glanced at Cullen.

She’s been rather afraid that someone was going to catch that loophole sometime.  Just her luck it had been Greagoir.  “I suppose you and I should talk, then.”  She went to Cullen and handed Cerys to him, acutely aware that Greagoir was watching them intently.  “Guard her,” she said in a low voice.  “I’ll be all right.  Lorn, stay with Cerys.”

Cullen looked doubtful, but nodded.  She motioned to Greagoir to follow her, and retreated into the Keep.  Crossing the inner ward, the back of her neck was prickling uncomfortably.  She’d long since gotten used to the sensation of being stared at, but with Greagoir here it felt exactly like being an apprentice back in the Tower, having been caught yet again trying to prank the Templars.

She didn’t bring him too far into the Keep; there was a small room just before the great hall that had been used since time immemorial for greeting the Vigil’s not entirely welcome guests.  The room was sparsely furnished, with only a pair of chairs and a small table.  She motioned at one of the chairs, and sat in the other.

Greagoir settled into the chair with a groan.  He was wearing clothing that she remembered from the very few times she had glimpsed the man not wearing armor.  Summerday, once, she had caught a glimpse of him in the doorway of the chapel, watching the apprentices pray.  She’d been so startled to see him not wearing armor that she’d frozen in place, and when she’d tried to tell Jowan about it later, he hadn’t believed her.

She’d thought it finery, then, but all she’d known or remembered were apprentice robes with holes at the hems that smelled a little like all of the children who had worn them before.   They’d always been too long for Kathil.  Looking back, a well-made shirt and sturdy trousers _would_ have made an impression.

Kathil rested her hands flat on her thighs and reminded herself that she was Warden-Commander and not to be trifled with even (especially) by a Templar.  She asked, “Of all the places in Ferelden you could have chosen to visit, Greagoir, why here?”

He raised an eyebrow.  “Mathias was not particularly pleased about his reassignment.  I chose to make sure he was going to comply with my orders.”

She frowned.  “ _Your_ orders?”

“All of the Templars who were there the day the Harrowing Chamber was invaded, I’ve sent out of Ferelden.  Val Royeaux, Cumberland, Kassel.”  He scratched his beard; it was a little longer than she remembered.  “Mathias was the last.  Kirkwall sent out a general request for any Templars that could be spared, so he’ll take ship once he reaches Amaranthine.”

Kathil didn’t want to ask, but she did anyway.  “Any reason you sent them out of Ferelden entirely?”

“What happened that day is not a fit topic for discussion.”  Greagoir fixed her with a very familiar look.  “Best that the incident be forgotten, and those who were there dispersed.  As far as the mages know, there was a minor incursion of demons that we ended with little trouble.  I feared—”  He stopped.  “Never mind what I feared.  It is done, or will be once Mathias is on a ship.”

“And will you go with him?” she asked.  

“I’m a little too old to go haring off to the Free Marches,” he said.  “I haven’t decided.  Perhaps I’ll go to Denerim.  Or I might find a little farmhold somewhere, settle down, and go fishing.”  He was giving her a steady look, unflinching.  “Or perhaps I will stay and make sure that my granddaughter is safe and well.”

She choked, and knew that she’d just gone pale.  Of all the things she’d never imagined—  “Guaire told you.”  Greagoir nodded.  She pressed her lips together.  “You don’t believe we are wrong for keeping her?”

He didn’t answer at first.  The silence in the room thickened and grew oppressive.  When he did speak, his words came slowly.  “I believe that you are a woman of influence, and that attempting to separate you from your daughter only provokes you to use that influence in ways that are detrimental to the Chantry.  And I believe that the world is changing, Kathil.  I am far too old to change with it, but I have seen enough in my time to know that the way things are done now is not the way things always have been done.”  He made a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole keep.  “This may not be right.  But neither was Irving’s....experiment.  I argued with him over that over the years.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.  “Experiment?”

“The memory spells,” Greagoir said.  “First Enchanter Arlen experimented with them, but Irving was the first to place them on the apprentices as a matter of course.  His theory was that it would be kinder if the children did not remember their families.  He thought it would make the Circle far more of a cohesive institution.  I disagreed.”

Kathil closed her eyes.  She’d been five years old when she’d arrived at the Tower, and Irving had been wearing outlandish clothing.  She had been frightened of him, and she’d run to Greagoir for protection.  A soldier’s child, through and through.  “You told me to be brave,” she blurted, then opened her eyes.  “When I first came to the Tower.”

For the first time, emotion cracked Greagoir's stony facade.  He looked taken aback.  “You remember?”

“It’s a long story.  The memory spell on me was removed recently.”  She breathed in.  “So those spells weren’t always part of how things worked in the Circle.”

“Not at all.  Irving always did try to be forward-thinking, but I always wondered what else that spell stole.  We had more than our share of...eccentric mages, and on the older apprentices the spells seemed to only take partway.”  He shook his head.  “Petra seems to be uninclined to follow in Irving’s footsteps.  Fortunately.”

There was a long silence between them then.  Kathil could hear the muffled sounds of life in the keep, the heartbeat of the Vigil.  “So why _did_ you come?” she asked.  “To judge for yourself whether or not I’m an abomination?  To lecture me about my duty to the Chantry?”

Greagoir raked his hand through his hair.  “Twenty-six years ago, I made a mistake,” he said.  There was something Kathil could not name in his voice, something like sorrow.  “One that I have never been able to bring myself to regret.  Do you think it so strange that now that I’m free of my responsibilities, I might want to get to know my son, and my granddaughter?”

“Your _granddaughter,_ who is the child of a _mage_ ,” she said.  There was a bitter edge to her voice.  “That _your_ precious Chantry wants to take away.  Why should I believe you, Greagoir?  You are the _last_ person I should allow in this keep, considering who we shelter here.”

His jaw had gone hard.  “What do you want me to say, Kathil?  I am an old man, and tired.  I do not have very much time left.  I want to enjoy what I can before I can no longer enjoy anything at all.”

Her breath stilled in her throat.  “The lyrium sickness,” she said.

“I grow...forgetful,” he said, and the shadow of pain crossed his face.  “Such is the reward for a life of service to the Maker.”

She quirked the corner of her mouth.  “And the reward of a Grey Warden is to eventually get eaten by darkspawn.  Take Mathias to Amaranthine, and then we’ll talk.”  She chewed on the inside of her lip for a moment.  “You may want to consider taking a detour to the Blackmarsh on your way back.”

“Why?”  

“It’s a long story,” she said.  “And a bit of a hunch.  There’s someone who lives there who might want to talk to you.”  How Greagoir would react to the appearance of Wynne’s spirit, she had no idea, but if he went mad he was no longer her problem, and she thought it might well bring him—and Wynne, what was left of her—some measure of comfort.  

 _You are meddling, Kathil._

She was a Grey Warden; meddling was what she _did_.  Greagoir was eyeing her, but decided not to press.  “I will think about it,” he said.  “I will see you when I come back from Amaranthine, then.  Ah, and these are for you, from various residents of the Tower.”  He pulled out a bundle of folded paper, and she took it.

She rose; so did he.  She escorted him to the gates of the inner ward and left him there to collect Mathias.  Her edict was uncompromising, as it had to be.  There were those outside the walls who would offer them shelter and comfort.  

Cullen found her, afterward.  He handed her Cerys as Lorn snuffled at her hip.  “So what is Greagoir doing here?” he asked.  “Do we have to worry about an invasion of Templars?”

“Not right now,” she told him, and gave him a small, tight smile.  “I think he has a few regrets that he would like to see addressed before he dies.”

He blinked.  “Greagoir is dying?”

Kathil bent her head to kiss Cerys’s wispy hair, and breathed in her scent.  “He’s probably sixty years old, at least.  Maybe older.  They start Templars on lyrium before they’re twenty.  He’s doing very well for how long he’s been taking it, but eventually it will destroy his mind.  I’ve met Templars who were far gone with the lyrium sickness.  It is not a fate I would wish on anyone.”

Cullen glanced at the now-closed gates.  “I see.”  His voice was uncertain.  “What regrets?”

Something clenched in her gut, and she turned away from him a little.  “Ideals are one thing.  Having family in danger of having those ideals do terrible things to them is another thing entirely.  Greagoir wants to get to know you, and Cerys.  Me, he knows well enough already.”  Cerys reached up and grabbed her chin, digging in with her sharp fingernails.  “Ow, little one.  It’s really going to be up to you, Cullen.  Personally...”  she shrugged one shoulder.  “I never had a chance to know my father.  If I were given the opportunity, I think I’d take it.”

“He’s leaving now,” Cullen said, and inclined his head towards the gate.

“He’ll be back.  I suggested that he detour to the Blackmarsh on the way back here.”

Cullen’s mouth fell open.  “You _what_?”

She chewed on her lip briefly, shifted Cerys on her hip.  “Whether or not Wynne will talk to him is anyone’s guess.  But if you had one last chance to speak with someone you loved, even if it’s only their shade—wouldn’t you?”

“It’s still probably a bad idea.”  He was eyeing her, skeptical.  “But I’m betting you knew that.”

“If I ever acted only on my _good_ ideas, I’d never do anything,” she said, with a wry twist to her mouth.  She glanced at the shadows, trying to gauge the time.  “Well, that interruption is over with, at least.  I’m meant to be tutoring baby mages right now, I think.”  Cerys was wriggling determinedly.  “After feeding Cerys, I think.”  She started towards the keep proper.  Cullen fell in at her shoulder.

The early summer sun warmed them as they crossed the inner ward to mount the steps into the keep.  Kathil wondered if the letters that Greagoir had given her would have any answers as to why the Knight-Commander would give up a position that he’d held for so many years with no evidence of growing wearing of it.  She wondered if Greagoir himself even knew.

He had been Irving’s Templar, as much as those two had been at each others’ throats.  For all of its faults, the Tower did allow mages to have emotions.  The Templars were supposed to be beyond all that.  It was no place at all for a knight to grieve, even privately.  

She knew about carrying impossible burdens.  She suspected the former Knight-Commander had several on his shoulders.

 _Would have been nice if he’d decided to carry those burdens somewhere_ else _, though._

She glanced up at the portcullis as they passed beneath it.  Every day that passed without a disaster was another day the Vigil had to shore up its defenses against what was coming.  A day to plant and tend crops, a day to drive pigs and geese to fresh pasture.  

Another day to live, and to prepare.

* * *

 _Faith is the memory of a lingering kiss,  
a firefly spark in the darkness,  
as easy as ringing bells in the cathedral  
as difficult as the silence after._

 _  
—k.m., from “love’s memory”  
_

 


	12. The Ragged Wood

_In the time after our world broke like an egg,_ _  
_ _those who were no longer mortal and yet not of us waited._ _  
_ _Wanting.  The hunger burned in them, scorching claws_ _  
_ _within them!_ Home _, they cried._ Home _._ __

 __ _Then Moros, human-named Despair, came to them_ _  
_ _and whispered:_ _  
_My daughter, she too is misplaced.  
This thing that has broken us, trapped you here,  
put it right and you will be—  
released— __

 ___Remember, mortals, that among all of us Despair is the most truthful._ _  
_ _Remember, too, that truth is not one thing but many,_ _  
_ _a ragged wood with many paths,_ _  
_ _a jewel with a thousand facets._ __

_—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza five: of the Twisted_ __

_*****_

 _  
Leliana:_

“Tell me,” she said to Murena beside her on their perch on the wall-walk.  “What do you see down there?”

The girl cocked her head.  “Three women, two men.  Good clothes, warm cloaks.  Boots are covered with mud, so they’ve walked a fair distance.  The one doing the talking is an elf, the rest human.”  She squinted.  “The woman in the back wears her purse where a pickpocket could get to it.  She doesn’t want anyone to see her face.  The elf is...”  She frowned.  “She reminds me of someone, _massime_.  Do you know her?”

There were stairs from the wall walk down to quite near the bailey.  They took them by twos, the girl’s stride lengthening as she tried to keep up with Leliana.  With adequate food and fresh air, the girl had gone from being scrawny to lanky, bidding fair to be as tall as Leliana.  It was a good sign; Leliana could teach her how to use height to her best advantage.

They arrived at the gates just as the guards waved through the small group.  Erlina had turned to the woman beside her, saying something in a low voice.  Leliana stepped into view, keeping her hands well away from her weapons.  “Maîtresse Erlina,” she said in Orlesian.  “So good of you to visit.  And Remy—”  She bared her teeth at the tall man who she had last seen in Minrathous.  “I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but you do have a habit of turning up where you are not wanted.”

Remy, to his credit, did not reply.  Erlina turned towards Leliana.  There was no surprise on her face whatsoever; she had been expecting to find Leliana in residence, then.  “Pivoine,” she said in that artlessly cultured voice that had won her so many admirers years ago.  “Just the person I was hoping to see.  You will be our guide to this fortress, yes?”

“Once you tell me why you have come, and brought such...distinguished guests,” Leliana replied.  Behind Erlina, the elf’s companions had drawn together.  She rather admired the boldness of their approach to the keep; though the chance was low that someone might recognize Anora, it still existed.  “Or did you think that we host all fugitives that come to our gates?”

The elf tipped her head gracefully towards Leliana.  “Rumor says precisely that.  The rebel Keep, standing fast against the slings and arrows of the Chantry’s disapproval.  It seems the sort of place where all sorts of troublesome folk might find a place.”

Lelaiana looked over the group of them.  Anora she knew, and Remy, of course.  The older woman appeared to be related to Anora, and the young man looked vaguely familiar, with that dark red hair that was so common in Ferelden. “Perhaps introductions are in order?” she said.  “Since it appears that you have invited yourself in.”

Anora stepped forward.  “We have met, I believe.  Fort Drakon.”  The former Queen smiled tightly.  Though there were dark circles under her eyes and the beginnings of lines at the corners of her mouth, she was still a beauty.  There was some other difference in her, something Leliana could not begin to name.  She still had that imperious look, that strident voice; perhaps it was now tempered by the hard-won knowledge that came with imprisonment.  Anora pursed her lips slightly, and returned Leliana’s considering look.  “You have also met Remy, it seems.  This is my mother, Celia d’Orise, formerly Mac Tir.  And this is my brother, Sionn.”  She gestured at the lanky young man.

Leliana’s eyebrows went up.  “I thought you were an only child?”

“So did I.”  The corners of Anora’s mouth lifted.  Leliana would not call that expression _quite_ a smile.  “Sionn was born in Orlais, after my mother fled Ferelden.”

 _And thus, he is likely not General Loghain’s son._   Leliana considered the young man; though he had his mother’s nose and her graceful brow, his jaw was strong and stubborn, and that hair—Leliana’s hair had always been notable, in Orlais, since so much of the population was fair-haired.  Even more in Tevinter.  She turned to Murena, who had been standing silently beside her, watching.  “Find the Commander,” she said.  “Tell her that there is something that requires her immediate attention.  She will be in the mage salle this time of day, I expect.”  The girl nodded and took off, vanishing around the corner. __

“Your apprentice?” Erlina asked.

“She is.  I do not expect her to take my name, but stranger things have happened, haven’t they?  So, do you have any plans for the moment other than convincing the Warden-Commander not to turn you in?”

A hard expression flickered in Erlina’s eyes; Anora looked taken aback.  “Turn us in?  But—”

“You forget that she is such very good _friends_ with King Alistair.”  Leliana allowed herself one small, cruel smile.  “And Alistair, had he been any wiser then he is, would not have allowed Anora to live past the dawn that he was crowned.  I know what you are, Erlina.  I know what Remy is, and I have heard the name Celia d’Orise whispered among the flowers for many years.”

“And we know what you are, Pivoine,” Erlina said.  “There is advantage in alliance, surely.  I have contacts all over this country, now, and many outside of Ferelden.  Celia has her contacts in Orlais.  Remy has his in Tevinter, though I am told you ruined a good number of them, yes?”

Leliana shrugged.  “You know where my loyalties lie.  Last summer’s Denerim _jeu_ was an insult that had to be answered.  I did not know when I left for Tevinter that Remy was involved.  Though perhaps I should have suspected.”  She eyed Remy, who did not have the grace to look abashed.  He slipped his hand into Celia’s.  _Lover, then.  Which explains what he is doing here._   “You are here seeking employment, then?”

“For the moment.”  That was Anora.  Her Ferelden accent was harsh against the softness of their voices.  “While I may have support in this country, it has been five years now.  People have gotten used to Alistair, and he seems to be doing good things for Ferelden.”

“That is odd,” Leliana said.  “It is more usual for a deposed ruler to try to take back power however they can.”

Now that was a sly little smile that curved Anora’s lips.  “There are many different kinds of power, of course.  Not all of them involve cheering crowds and wearing a crown.  Ferelden has a narrow window of opportunity to take its place are more than just a southern backwater.  With information, we can build alliances.  With alliances, we can bring the world to this country.  Wealth is built in trade.”

Leliana frowned.  “You and the keep’s treasurer would get along well,” she said.  “What you are proposing requires that you find a powerful patron.  Preferably the crown.”

“Or an arl,” Anora said.  “This keep will be hosting quite the collection of nobles soon.  One of them may prove amenable.”

“That’s several weeks away.  I am not sure you will be here that long.”

Celia stepped forward, letting go of Remy’s hand.  “That is for the Warden-Commander and the Arl of Amaranthine to determine, is it not?  And here is the commander, now.”

Indeed, that was Kathil in her armor rounding the corner, Lorn beside her and Murena trailing in her wake.  She came to a dead halt when she saw Anora.  “You are _kidding_ me,” she blurted, her mouth twisting.  “As if I didn’t have enough trouble on my hands.”

Leliana winced.  Evidently Kathil was in one of _those_ moods.  She gave her friend a warning look.  “Allow me to introduce you,” she said.  “Anora you know, and Erlina.  This is Anora’s mother, Celia d’Orise, and her son Sionn.  And this is Remy.  A bard most recently in the service of Empress Celene.”

Remy’s shoulders stiffened.  “I have not been in her employ for years,” he said.  “And well you know it.”

Celia lifted her head with quiet dignity.  “More to the point, he has been in _my_ service for some time now.”  In response to Kathil’s raised eyebrow, she said, “I am a handler of bards, and of information.  And I am very good at what I do.”  She glanced at Leliana, and there was a question in those blue eyes. 

The web that was Orlesian intrigue was convoluted, so much so that effect could not be linked directly to cause.  A nobleman spilled wine on a lady’s bosom; four days later and a hundred miles away, a comtesse’s summer estate burned.  That Remy had been resident in the house of the magister that had ordered an attack on Alistair and Rima, Leliana had thought largely unrelated.

 _Perhaps not._

“They are here to claim shelter,” Leliana said.  Beside Kathil, Lorn sat down and began to use one large hind paw to scratch industriously at his neck.  Sionn looked fascinated.  A young man raised in Orlais might indeed find a Mabari exotic, Leliana reckoned.  “And perhaps to offer their services.”

Kathil took a breath, her features settling into that familiar look of hard suspicion.  “How do I know you’re not already working for someone else?” she asked Celia

Celia twitched an eyebrow.  “Handlers do not enter into _employment_ , not as you mean the term.  We are not bought and sold, not as bards or assassins are.  Perhaps, with a generous enough stipend, we might be convinced to provide information exclusively to one party.  Usually we act merely as the broker for those not wealthy enough to be a bard’s patron.  But that is all moot, now.”  She shrugged one shoulder, elegantly.  “Ferelden is not Orlais, and the games here are very different.”

“I’ll say.”  Kathil surveyed them with some distaste.  “Leliana, what do you think?”

 _I believe you should be careful what you wish for, dearest._

Because had it not been just the other night that the mage had paced in front of the firepit in the great hall, trying to decide which Wardens to send in response to some troubling rumors out of the Free Marches?  A thaig beneath the Deep Roads opened, and whispers of something having escaped?  I _should send Nathaniel,_ she’d said.  _I don’t want him that far away, though.  Just in case._

Leliana drew a long breath.  “I believe you have your Kirkwall correspondents,” she said.  “At the very least, they could delve into the rumors without attracting attention.”

“And it gets them out of the country, and saves me having to decide whether to turn them over to the crown.”  One corner of her mouth twisted.  “A year of service in the Free Marches, with regular reports sent to Vigil’s Keep.  It will cost me a copper or three, I imagine.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Remy said.  “I have contacts in Kirkwall.”

“Of course you do,” Anora muttered with a sidelong glance at the bard.  “Kirkwall...that’s where so many people fled when the Blight began.  People who might be convinced to return.”

“And the place has a certain reputation, yes?  A place where a young man may make a name for himself.”  Celia spared a fond glance for her son.  “And it allows Alistair some time to decide that Anora being free does not mean the world will end.”

“So, how much is this going to cost me?” Kathil asked.

Celia and Anora exchanged glances.  “Remy, which contacts were you thinking of?” Celia asked.

He wrinkled his distinguished nose, looking briefly vulpine.  “The Friends of Red Jenny are active in Kirkwall.  I have worked with them before, and they pay well for the sort of work that I and Sionn do.  Less well for your work, Celia, but the last I heard Kirkwall is lousy with darkwork.  It will not be hard to pick up some.”

Kathil’s eyebrows had gone up.  “There’s a name I never thought to hear again.  Red Jenny has quite a few friends, doesn’t she?”

“And they are all dangerous.  As is Red Jenny, if the rumors are to be believed.”  He inclined his head towards Kathil.  “It is wise to not ask too many questions about her.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”  Kathil shifted her stance, scratched Lorn behind the ears.  “Fifty sovereigns and passage to Kirkwall, and I don’t mention to Alistair you were here.”

Celia smiled.  “All that, plus a Mabari pup for Sionn if you have one.”

The mage blinked.  “How did you—never mind, I don’t want to know.  Thirty sovereigns, passage, a pup, and carefully avoiding the subject of who got that pup.”  It was a handsome offer, particularly since Mabari were never _sold_ as such.  They were always gifts, their value too great to put a price on.  Leliana saw Sionn light up like a sunrise.  _A son of Ferelden, indeed._   He glanced at his mother, hope shining on his face.

He looked a little familiar, she thought, and then wondered who he reminded her of.

“Acceptable, for a year of service.”  Celia folded her hands together.  “We can be ready to leave at your convenience.”

Kathil quirked her mouth.  “The coins aren’t a problem.  The pup is.  Dracene had her pups, but they’re only six weeks old, too young to be weaned.  You’re in luck that there’s one not spoken for yet, but it’s the runt of the litter.  We wanted to make sure the pup would survive.”  Dracene had been sent from Highever, accompanied by Kerrither, her handler and former castellane of Highever Castle.  The pair of them had been a gift of sorts from Fergus Cousland.  Cullen, on his recruitment trip there, had mentioned that Vigil’s Keep was in need of a castellan, and soon after he had arrived home Kerrither and Dracene had arrived.  The castellane had been mounted on a fine spotted palfrey, her hound coursing at her side.

 _He says he has fond memories of our visit,_ Kathil had told Leliana.  _What I think he means is that he has fond memories of Zevran.  But, too, he said that his sister was passionate about the Wardens and would have joined, if she’d lived._

The castellane had started organizing the Vigil as if it had personally offended her.  Dracene had had her pups soon after their arrival.  They _were_ cute things, though Leliana had seen Lorn cheerfully killing on command a little too often to be entirely comfortable with them.

“The first of the guests for the celebration will arrive in a fortnight,” she reminded Kathil. 

“Fortunately, it’s a big keep, and I think our guests are practiced at staying out of sight,” she said.  She scratched her chin.  “Let me find Kerrither.  Follow me.”

Kathil led them away, leaving Leliana standing with Murena, watching them go.  “What do you think about them?” she asked her ward.  “And take your hair out of your mouth, _bibi_.”

Murena flushed and pulled the damp end of her braid out of her mouth.  “The _vhathir_ is like the Bone Queen,” she said.  “Dance all you want.  She’ll just pull the rug out from under you at the end.”

 _Vhathir_ was the Tevinter word for a kind of large spider; it was also a term of respect used for men and women like Celia, who controlled the flow of information. “Indeed,” she said, and bent to kiss Murena’s head.  The girl’s attempt to duck out of the way was more for form’s sake than anything else.  “Let us go peruse the entrance logs and see what the guards have written about our guests.  Perhaps it will be an opportunity for you to practice your lettering, yes?” __

The girl nodded, and they went. _Perhaps all will be well._

 _Perhaps._

 _  
_

*****

 

 _Wynne:_

There was a familiar presence on the other side of the Veil.

As she gained more control over her ground, she found it easier to keep track of the goings-on on both sides; even if the Veil had not been particularly thin here, a Templar was always impossible to mistake from this side.  Templars had a certain solidity to them, rocks in the river of the Veil. 

And _this_ Templar...well.

She pressed her awareness into the mortal world.  The Veil shivered against the surface of her mind, and she began to translate what she was perceiving.

 _Why have you come here. Greagoir?_

He was standing next to the scholar who was making a study of dragons, here in the Blackmarsh.  He was the one who had strung together the skeleton that Wynne had temporarily animated when Cullen and the rest had been ambushed.  Fortunately, the people who had moved to the Blackmarsh seemed to take a dragon skeleton coming to life and killing apparent raiders in stride.  The scholar had promptly re-strung the damaged skeleton, afterwards, and had been adding more and more bones to it since.  It was nearly complete, ready for use if she needed it.

It was strange, how the mortals here seemed to believe that someone was truly watching out for them.  Anywhere else, they might be fearful; here, among the bones of the dragons and the remains of what had once been a thriving village, they allowed themselves to hope. 

Hope, that most tenacious of mortal emotions.  Hope destroyed the world, and then rebuilt it. 

Greagoir did not look much different than the last time she had seen him, some mortal years ago.  He was out of armor—a surprise—and perhaps his face was a bit thinner, his beard a little longer.  Still, his face was one of the handful as familiar to her as the lines on her palms, seen and studied so often over the years.  First young, and then settled into a dignified middle age that seemed eternal as the Tower itself.

Seeing him, she was more _Wynne_ than she had been in some time, and it was a shock to realize just how much of her mortal self had been worn away.

“So it just...came to life?” he was asking the scholar. 

“We assume it was some magic left over from the days when this was a place where dragons came to die.  Some old protective magic that was well-built enough to determine malign intent.  It’s fascinating—I’ve already started writing a treatise on it!  There is so much we don’t know about the ancient dragons and how they lived and died.”

Greagoir looked pained.  “It did not occur to you that there are old things that it’s best to leave sleeping?”

“I don’t think that I’m going to disturb any living dragons by studying their dusty bones.  Besides, the spell that animated the bones quite clearly showed that it could tell friend from foe.”  The man ran a hand across his bald pate.  He was the sort of small, efficient-looking man that Wynne always associated with account-books and abacuses.  “After all, it only killed the raiders, which argues for some discrimination there.  I hope those Wardens got away all right.  We looked for them, but didn’t find any trace other than the cart they left behind.”

Greagoir didn’t answer at first, only looked up at the dragon skull with its empty eye sockets, those teeth that were not broken wickedly curved and serrated at the edges.  “You said it was the Warden-Commander who was staying here when the village was attacked?” he asked.  “I saw her on my way to Amaranthine.  She was alive and well.”

And _that_ answered why Greagoir was doing here.  Wynne could well imagine a well-meaning Kathil telling Greagoir to come here, if she had the opportunity.  _You are a meddler, little one._   She could not bring herself to be angry.  After losing the Tower, she had not thought to see Greagoir or Irving again. 

The little man enthused in Greagoir’s direction for some time, then bounded off to see if there was anyone who could put him up for the night.  There was nothing like an inn here; the village was too small, and visitors far too infrequent.  Greagoir was left alone by the town gates to contemplate dragon bones and the Blackmarsh.

Wynne pressed herself against the Veil, and gathered herself to wrap it around her and step into the mortal world.

This was only possible because the two worlds were so close together, because the land here had the very strong memory of having been in both places at once.  It felt strange to still be connected to the shifting realm of the Fade but have her feet on unmoving, unchanging mortal stone.  It always took her a moment to remember how to stand, how to confine herself entirely within her own edges.

Greagoir started and turned, his hand going to his sword.  “You—”  He stopped, frowned.  “If this is a joke, demon, it is in excruciatingly poor taste.”

It took Wynne a moment to remember how to laugh.  “No joke, Greagoir.  It’s me—as much of me there is left, anyway.  I take it you were sent here by Kathil.”

He was staring.  “You—you’re _dead_.”

“I am.”  It was easy to admit, now, as bits and pieces of her fell away into the waters of the Fade.  “You knew I had bonded with a spirit.  Irving had to have told you, after I wrote him.  I don’t think there was a single thing he _didn’t_ tell you.”

“He did.  And so...what _are_ you?”

“A spirit.”  She spread her arms wide, gestured at the village and marsh around them.  “A spirit who remembers being Wynne, who _is_ Wynne as most would reckon it.  For the moment, I am guarding this place.  So.  Whatever possessed you to listen to a single thing Kathil says?”

Greagoir snorted.  “At the time, I thought she simply wanted to put off the question of whether to let me into Vigil’s Keep for a few more weeks.  There is a...situation at the keep that I’m not sure you’re aware of.”

He told her about that situation, about how Kathil had so floridly shown the Chantry to the gates of Vigil’s Keep and told them in no uncertain terms to stay out.  “I am not sure she believes that I am retired,” he said, and a look of something like wistfulness crossed his face.  “To be honest, I am not entirely sure that I believe it myself, so some doubt may in fact be in order.”

“What led you to leave the Tower?” she asked.

He looked away from her, spent a few moments studying the bone dragon.  “Irving died,” he said.  “I found him at his desk, his head on a book.  I knew it was coming, he had been unwell for some time, but...”  He shrugged.  “I discovered that duty is a hollow comfort, at times.  Almost all of the Templars under my command were young, and the few with some years of duty on them left to join the Grey Wardens.  Most of the older mages are gone now, as well.  Best to leave the Tower to the young.  The world is changing, and the Tower will need to change with it.”

“And you miss him,” she said, understanding. 

“I do.  It had been a long time since you and I went our separate ways.  I had forgotten how empty it leaves you after so many years of standing guard.” 

“You two were good together.”  And they had been; Irving and Greagoir had been the most important people in each others’ lives.  No matter how many lovers Irving had taken, no matter how Greagoir had blustered and shouted at him, their working relationship had been based on friendship and mutual respect.  It was so strange, to think of the Tower without the two of them. 

And there was something else, something about what he’d said.  He had never acknowledged before that they had parted ways at all, that there had been anything at all to part _from_.  She studied him, trying to see in him the man she’d known all those years ago, the one she’d never admitted she’d loved.  That Greagoir was still in there, she thought.  Buried deeply, but still alive.

“There’s more,” she said.  “Isn’t there?  You’d never have left the Tower without something pushing you.”

Greagoir grimaced.  “I lost my way in the library.  Took a wrong turn and found myself in a corner that I knew should be familiar but I could swear I’d never seen before.  Then I started losing things.  Then I couldn’t remember which ledger had the accounts and which one was the Harrowing records.  Little things, adding up to something larger.  The last straw was the day that I tried to put on my armor, but couldn’t manage the buckles.”  His voice was not angry, but contemplative, facing the words with characteristic stolidity.  “I’ve seen what happens when Templars try to deny the lyrium sickness, and the pups in the Tower were too young to know the signs.  So I decided that it was time.  Best exit with dignity rather than endanger any in my care once I forget names and faces and duties.”

She inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of it.  “Time wears away at us all, Greagoir.  I’ve lost so much of who I was, who Wynne was.  Some day, I’ll no longer be here.  I’ll be reduced to nothing but a memory in the mind of a spirit.”  She brushed her fingertips over her lips; the sensation was distant.  “What was my favorite color?  I...don’t remember.  And it bothers me that I don’t.”

He breathed in, startled.  “Green.  I think.  The hair ribbon you gave me was green.”

“That seems right.  The color of grass, and trees, and growing things.”  She remembered, now.  That ribbon...she’d given it to him that night they’d spent together, the longest night of the year. 

Greagoir looked away from her, returning to studying the dragon bones.  “I kept it.  The ribbon.  As a reminder.”

Wynne raised an eyebrow.  “Of what, exactly?”

He chuckled, and it did her aching heart good to hear it.  It reminded her that there had been days when he’d laughed, before the stone of the Tower had closed around the two of them.  Once, she had been the one made of thorns and bristles, and he had been the one who had smiled.  “At first, it was a reminder of my weakness.  Later...I think it was a reminder that I had been human, once.”

There passed a long moment then where the only sound was the wind stirring the treetops, the soft sounds of water nearby, distant banging of someone working on a house.  “Will you stay here?” Wynne asked.  “We can help each other remember.”

He turned to her.  “It’s an odd thought.  I had planned on staying at Vigil’s Keep for a time.”

“This place will be here, and I am not going anywhere.”  She smiled, just a little. 

This, too, was grace; to stand with someone who she’d once been young and foolish with, everything they had never said to one another hanging in the silence between them.  She had loved the Circle.  It had taken her in when she had been outcast from everywhere familiar, wrapped her up and made her at home.  It had been her family, her friends, living and breathing the theory and practice of magic.  The Templars had been part of that, and _this_ Templar in particular.

Her memories of the Circle were her memories of Greagoir.  Wynne could never separate the two.  And of late, those memories had been slipping away from her, one by one, leaving soft mouse-colored absences behind.  Soon enough, she would forget that there had been anything to remember in the first place.

His brow furrowed slightly.  “You say you are a spirit.  What kind of spirit?”

“In your language, I am Faith.  One of many.”  She gestured with one hand, her fingers opening.  “We are small but numerous.  Unlike most of my kind, I found myself...entangled with mortals.  We are drawn to those who are like us.  I have been fortunate in my choice of mortals, I think.  And it is fair to say that I am Faith, but also Wynne.  Bonded as we are, we are one and the same.  The only reason that I am losing the part of myself that is Wynne is that our mortal body has died, and in the Fade nothing is permanent now.  Not even memories.”

“I...understand.”  He looked like he was trying, at least.  Wynne felt a sharp pang of pity; that Templar fear of demons was so ingrained that the idea of Fade citizens being anything more than clotted malice was difficult for them.  Even for Greagoir—Greagoir, who _knew_ better.  Had always known better. 

There might have been more, but Wynne felt a pressure, a mortal approaching.  She nodded to Greagoir and let go of the mortal world.  The Fade folded around her, waters rising to claim her.

This weight within her, this melancholy, was a pain both bitter and sweet.  Perhaps they would remind each other, for a time, of who they had been.  And perhaps when they faded, they would fade together.

Wynne closed her eyes, and began to call flowers into being all around her.

 

*****

 

 _Kathil:_

After several months of having Murena around, Arcanum-accented Fereldan was a familiar sound in and around Vigil’s Keep.  However, it was not _usually_ heard coming from a grown woman’s mouth, especially not a woman who was asking rather plaintively if anyone could take her to see the keep’s commander.

Kathil was in the outer ward for once, Cerys in her sling and Lorn and Cullen flanking her, Fiann ranging out from them and greeting everyone who could be persuaded to pat her head.  She was tired of hiding in the keep, and things had been quiet for the last week.  It was good to walk in the outer ward, especially now that the place was starting to resemble less a refugee camp than an actual village sheltered by the outer walls. A makeshift market had spring up in the center of the ward, flanked by shelters that were little by little being turned into actual houses.  The repairs to the walls were coming along as well; some of the scaffolding had come down.

And there was a woman asking a guard if there was any way she could be taken into the keep proper.

Kathil studied the woman, noted her homespun Ferelden dress that was a little too tight in a couple of places and a little too loose in others, her dark skin and darker curls.  She looked a little like Sati, though her nose was shorter and turned up a little.  She and Cullen glanced at each other, and then Kathil strode forward, past a guard who started when he saw her.  “You’re looking for the Warden-Commander?”

“I am, yes.”  The woman’s accent rendered all of her consonants soft, as if she were speaking through falling water. 

“You’ve found her,” Kathil said.  Lorn sniffed the air and wrinkled his brow, expression caution in the stillness of his body and tail. 

Fiann gave a sharp bark.  Mage!  Their new friend was a mage! Mage-friend-lady!  She pranced in place, glancing at Cullen, obviously looking for permission to go greet the stranger.  Cullen laid a restraining hand on her head.

The woman’s eyebrows went up.  She glanced at Cerys, then Cullen, then back to Kathil.  “I...see.  Well.  I am actually looking for a friend, and I was hoping you might know where she is.  Her name is Leliana.  She spoke of you often and with great affection, and mentioned she was going to see you when she returned to Ferelden.”

Everything was making quite a bit more sense, now.  “I will tell you where you can find her, if you tell me what an Imperial magister wants with her.”

Her mouth fell open.  “Magister?  Me?  Ah, _nami_ , no, you are quite mistaken.  Not all mages in the Empire are magisters.  My talents were always too small to be worth the apprentice-price.”  Her smile was quick and warm.  “Many of us live quietly and carefully out of the view of the magisters.  Until recently, I was a...in your language, the word is _courtesan_.  That word is inadequate, but it does cover the basics.”

Kathil’s eyebrows went up.  “You must be a professional acquaintance of Leliana’s, then.”

“It started that way.”  The woman touched her fingertips to her mouth, as if to hide a smile.  “It did not end so.  My name is Amity.  From how you speak, Leliana is in residence.  Would you let her know that I am here?”

Kathil looked at Amity, trying to read her as if she were a riddle to be solved.  The other woman looked back at her, impassively.  She wondered if the twisting sensation in her chest was jealousy.  _Amity.  Why is that name familiar?_   “Of course.  If you’ll just—”  She stopped.  “What’s that?”

Beyond Amity, at the gates to the outer ward, a commotion was building, the usual sounds of the outer ward subsiding underneath of a rising murmur.  “I passed a caravan on the way here,” Amity said.  “The banner they carried was a green sunburst on blue.”

“Denerim,” Cullen said.  “Do you think—”

There was no _time_.  Kathil turned on her heel and walked as fast as she could without running towards the gates to the inner ward.  “That’s Eamon,” she said, her voice harsh.  “Alistair gave him the Denerim arling.  We have to be ready to greet him.”  In the sling, Cerys squirmed and stretched her legs fitfully.  “I know, little one.  Amity, come with us.  We’ll point you in Leliana’s direction.”  Hopefully, if the mage was dangerous, Leliana would be able to keep her out of trouble for the moment.  “He’s _early_.  Maker’s _Breath_.”

“I take it that this Eamon is your enemy?” Amity asked.  She was stretching out her legs, keeping up with them as they climbed the stairs to the ward gate. 

“Not exactly.  It’s a long story.  Felsi!”  Kathil had caught sight of the dwarven woman, talking to Lieutenant Nadine at the foot of the stairs.  Felsi had been settling as the castellane’s assistant, much to Oghren’s suspiciously loud dismay.  The position allowed her to keep her son close by, and she could take the skills she learned and use them anywhere in Ferelden should she choose to leave.  “Find Kerrither, tell her that we’re about to have the first of the guests we talked about.  Lieutenant, send a page to find Zevran, he’s about to be needed in the great hall.  When our guests show up, send them in.”  She bounded up the steps, much to Cerys’s amusement.  The dogs sprinted ahead.

She had just enough time to send Amity off to find Leliana and settle Cerys in the cradle kept to one side of the dais for just such occasions before Eamon walked into the great hall with Isolde on his arm, flanked by a pair of veterans whose scarred hands and calm expressions spoke of long years spent in the service of the arl.

Zevran had slipped in through a side door.  “I had nearly forgotten,” he murmured to her, smoothing her hair down with a hand.  “It seems Eamon has not.”

She gave him a half-smile as he stepped back.  Then she turned her attention to Eamon, fighting the urge to cross her arms defensively.  Kathil inclined her head towards them.  “Eamon, and Isolde.  Welcome to Vigil’s Keep.”

There was a long, uneasy silence.  Eamon was looking older, though he still retained that deceptive sense of ease that had fooled Kathil into thinking that he was just a good man caught up in events beyond his control.  “Thank you,” he said, finally.  “I trust you’re aware of why I chose to arrive early?”

She raised an eyebrow.  “I can only imagine that you missed my company so much that you chose to travel ahead of Alistair.”

He favored her with a sour look.  “You’ve recruited a convicted criminal into your ranks,” he said.  “He has escaped justice for far too long.”

“And you would have me do what with him?” she asked, keeping her tone mild. 

“Turn him over to face the justice that he _should_ have faced five years ago.”

She had known it was coming, still, if she had been a cat, she’d have arched her back and spat.  “No.”

“He tried to murder me.  He taught my son _blood magic_.”  Eamon glanced at Isolde.  There were two spots of color burning bright on her cheeks, but her mouth was firmly closed.  “You turned him over to Teagan yourself, and _now_ you choose to shelter him?  Why?”

“The Wardens hold the Right of Conscription, Eamon.  You know this.  I was conscripted rather than be sent to the Aeonar.  Alistair was conscripted away from the Templars.  Nathaniel Howe was conscripted from the cells of this keep.  My reasons for conscripting Jowan are my own, and I am not going to change my mind just because you would like to see him strung up.”  She eyed the man and added, “And I will remind you that Jowan did not teach Connor _blood_ magic.”

“Then how did he learn it?” Isolde burst out, apparently no longer able to keep silent.  “Where did my boy learn such terrible things from?”

“The same way most mages learn it,” Kathil said.  “They look a demon in the eye and accept a bargain offered to them.  Connor wanted to save one of the most important things in the world to him, and he did not have anyone to see the warning signs.  As much as I hate to say it, Isolde, if your son had been in the Tower, with teachers and Templars around him every hour of the day, he likely would never have gone down the path that he did.  The Tower is an evil, but it also does some good.”  She returned her gaze to Eamon.  “But let’s stop pretending that this is about justice, shall we?  This is about power.  specifically, whether or not you have the power to make the Warden-commander of Ferelden accede to your requests.”

Eamon’s expression hardened, his jaw firming under his beard.  “Your flouting of the Chantry—”

“Is my business, and the Chantry’s.”  She reached for calm and found very little to be had.  “The answer is no, Eamon.  You had a hand in pushing me to take this position.  As a Warden, I do not answer to you or _anyone_ in Ferelden’s nobility.  Even the crown.  I am _not_ the Arl of Amaranthine.”

“And _this_ is what you do with that power?” Eamon said.  “Needle the Chantry into moving against you, cause strife among the nobility, shelter men who should be shown the noose?  Do you have any idea the magnitude of disaster you’re in the middle of causing?”

“I am not _manageable_.  And you are not Alistair.”

Beneath the scowl, Kathil thought she could see Eamon realizing that perhaps this was a skirmish he wasn’t going to win.  He’d hated Anora, she knew, not because she was a bad ruler but because she was difficult for him to control.  She wondered just how well he was getting along with Rima; she hoped the Princess Consort was giving the old wolf a difficult time.  Eamon, it seemed, was destined to be thwarted by strong-willed women. 

 _Anora.  Oh little sodding hells._

The former Queen and her family were doing a good job of staying out of sight, but if Eamon found out about her, he would use them against her.  _I’ll have to see if I can get her out of here, and soon._

“If that is all,” she said, “and if you are done asking me to condemn one of my most useful Wardens to an untimely death, I can have our castellane show you to your rooms.”  Kerrither had appeared at one of the side doors, her sharp-boned face vivid against the shadows.  Dracene was at her side, evidently taking a break from her pups.  “I’m sure you have things you wish to discuss with Arl Varel.”

Eamon looked like he wished to argue, but held his tongue.  There was still a fortnight before the celebration; they would be hosting him and his people until then.  She watched them file out of the room and into the winding hallways, and breathed out.

She would warn Anora, and deal with the fallout when it came.

That night, the Wardens gathered in the common room in their wing, as was their habit.  Sigrun brought a pair of bottles to share; Nathaniel little wheels of wine-rimed goat cheese.  Kathil had opened the windows to the mild evening air, and they talked and passed Cerys around.  Keili sat next to Jowan; her hand would occasionally brush his arm carelessly.  The might be sleeping together. Kathil had not asked, as it was none of her business.

The door opened, and Leliana was on the other side, as well as that mage—Amity, Kathil remembered now.  She motioned to Leliana to come in.  The bard would often join them in the evening for conversation and music.  Leliana occasionally teased Nathaniel that she was going to teach him how to be a bard.  ( _Please don’t_ , Kathil had told Leliana privately.  _Nathaniel has many talents.  Singing is_ not _among them._ )

Leliana strode in and lighted on a low stool.  Amity sat on the floor next to her, sinking to the stone with grace so practiced that it was nearly unconscious.  Leliana's cheeks were flushed, a little blotchy; her gaze sought Amity as if the mage were a candle and the bard a fluttering white moth.  "You have met Amity, yes?  I met her in Tevinter, when I was there."

"Tell me, what brings you to Ferelden, other than Leliana?"

"Things are unsettled in the Empire," Amity said.  Even her voice was beautiful in a studied and formal way, though her accent grated slightly on the ear.  Dark eyes caught the firelight, and gave little light back.  "A magister died recently.  Not an uncommon occurrence, but what we did not know was that Magister Numicius was the pebble in the dam.  His death has unleashed the floodwaters, and there is no reining them in."  Her mouth pursed thoughtfully, and the gesture was so familiar that Kathil's breath stuttered briefly.  "My doyenne sent us all out of the Empire, for our own safety.  I close to go south, knowing that Leliana had returned to Ferelden, but I was quite surprised at how easy she was to find.  I thought to be searching for months, but here she was in nearly the first place I looked."

Someone had passed Cerys to Zevran, and he sat the infant on his knee and looked at Amity.  "A mage, yet not a magister, and living in Tevinter.  You have powerful friends, no?"

"Not powerful enough to shield me and those like me from the bloody games of the magisters, I am afraid."  A small smile played on her lips, briefly appearing and then gone once more.  "Numicius left behind a vacuum of power, and the last I counted there were twelve factions vying for that place, nine of which were taking credit for his murder.  Two of the three remaining are less concerned with who killed him than the fact that a certain qunari artifact that Numicius had nearly secured has now vanished.  The last believes that outside forces murdered Numicius, that it was a politically motivated attack.  An Orlesian bard graced the hallways of the Mata Numis, after all.  He was well-placed to coordinate an attack."

"It was Remy," Leliana said.  "He is innocent, of course, but he left Tevinter afterwards, and has landed briefly in Ferelden."  She smiled, slowly.  “Amity is willing to ply her trade here, if you’d have her.”

Kathil raised an eyebrow.  “Her trade?  I thought—”

“Think of it as something akin to my own profession,” Leliana said.  “Closer to Celia’s than mine.  A courtesan, in Tevinter, does not hire out her affections.  They are court observers and arrangers of happenings large and small, from assignations to murder.”

“My father was a Warden,” Amity added.  “I have always been fascinated by them.  It would be a pleasure to observe how an installation of the Grey functions on a day to day basis.”

Kathil looked at Amity sharply.  “Your father was a Warden?  What was his name?”

“His name was Duncan,” she said. 

A hush fell on the room, all eyes turning towards the Tevinter woman sitting so casually on the stone floor.  “Duncan,” Nathaniel said.  “Surely you don’t mean— _the_ Duncan?”  He was playing cat’s-cradle with Murena, and his hands were full of string.  He held his hands still, keeping the design intact.

“I never knew his family name, but according to my mother he was Warden-Commander in Ferelden for some time.”  She turned her eyes on Nathaniel, calmly, and folded her hands. 

Kathil remembered a Warden’s Oath that was still resident in her wardrobe, handed to her by Leliana.  _Amity.  That was the name.  Duncan’s daughter, here in Vigil’s Keep._

“You are more than welcome to stay as long as you like,” Kathil said into the silence.  “You can tell us more about modern Tevinter.  We hear very little of the news from Minrathous.”

Then Sigrun laughed and cracked a dry little joke, and Jowan passed the wine bottle next to him around the room, and the dogs came padding in from wherever they had been and settled down by the fire.  Kathil settled Cerys between Lorn and Fiann, and went to sit between Cullen and Zevran.  They draped an arm each around her shoulders.

For this little space, this small time, surrounded by her family and her people—she could forget what lurked outside the room, waiting for her to stumble.

 

*****

 

 _Leliana:_

Amity’s skin was flushed all the way down to her belly as the two of them lay against one another.  Leliana traced her fingers down Amity’s side, feeling soft, exertion-damp skin.  “You are a _very_ wicked woman,” she told Amity, and smiled. 

Leliana had sent Murena to spend the evening with the family of the head cook, so she and Amity had been spending their private time in an altogether pleasant fashion.  Amity propped herself up on one elbow, only half her face visible in the light from the lantern.  “I know,” she said, and her voice was pleased beyond measure.  “You do not seem to mind.”

“Not in the slightest.”  She stretched, feeling the slight ache of muscles well-used.  “Though I _meant_ the half-truths that you told Kathil, yes?”

“She does not need to know about the Daughters,” Amity said.  “We are seeds scattered to the wind in the hope that some of us will take root.  It was the only thing left to do after the killings.  Too many of us have died.”  Her voice had gone soft and her eyes distant.  “We carry too much knowledge that cannot be risked to books and yet must not be lost entirely.”

The Daughters of Silence had once served the Old God Dumat.  Leliana raised an eyebrow.  “And you constantly gather more information.  Including information about the Grey Wardens...the only non-darkspawn who can hear the song of the Old Gods.”

Amity froze, looking down at Leliana.  “You know.”

She laughed and reached up to pull Amity down next to her.  The other woman’s form molded against her own.  “I surmised.  And I knew you had to have come looking for me for more reasons than mere affection.”

“Ah.”  She was silent for a moment, curling against Leliana.  Her breath was warm against Leliana’s neck.  “The affection was the greatest part of it.  That you are so intimate with the Fereldan Wardens was good enough reason for my doyenne to let me go south rather than west as she originally wanted.  I know you have no reason to believe me, but...”

Leliana rolled to her side, pulling Amity tightly against her.  “I missed you,” she said.  “We are both women who deal in falsehood, but that is the truth.  I will trust, Amity, until my trust is betrayed.”

And that was the core of it, was it not?  That even a bard had to occasionally place trust where there was no logical reason for trust to be warranted.  She had done so once, with Marjolaine, and her trust had been rewarded by betrayal. 

 _Still.  Even if this ends as it did with Marjolaine, I am willing to see where this road will take me._

She held her lover in the dim of the room, and closed her eyes.  It would be as it was, and she would sing this song until its ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, real life, always getting between me and writing. :)
> 
> I should be able to complete this story over the next few weeks, but we’ll see. I am so very ready to be done with it, and I’m excited about the conclusion. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, and for sticking with me through this long and weird ride!


	13. When Despair Speaks

_But when Despair speaks, do not all mortals listen?_  
_When she who bends the soulspires with her presence_  
_and stirs waters where she steps calls, do not all mortals answer?_  
 __

 __  
 _They spoke in the tongues of mortal flame, and created_  
_those they called Listeners, a thousand thousand hearts beating_  
_with a single purpose: to find Elpis, mortal-named Hope,_  
_the Voice that bound our world’s heart together,_  
_mountain-born Elpis who drank the floodwaters down._  
 _  
_  
 _Listeners went tumbling through the Veil, mortal and demon and hunger,_  
_claws and bone and magic—_  
 __

 __  
 _Oh, if it were only so!_  
_If only they had not been bound in the hunger of the mortals,_  
_if only those trapped had not tumbled screaming through the Veil!_  
 __

_—from the Canticle of Demons, stanza five: of the Twisted_

* * *

 _Cullen:_

Some things were as inevitable as winter, war, and chewed boots when there were puppies about.

One of those things was that, eventually, Eamon was going to find out that Anora was in Vigil’s Keep.  What Cullen hadn’t expected was that Eamon would come to _him_ about it.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” he said.  “You really should speak with Kathil about it.”

Eamon looked pained.  He had come to find Cullen in the salle, timing his appearance for just after morning practice.  Cullen was holding an armful of potmetal swords, still.  “The Warden-Commander has apparently decided that I am not worth listening to,” Eamon said.  “I was hoping I might appeal to your reason.  Anora is a dangerous woman.  Maker knows I saw that up close too many times during her reign.  Ferelden cannot afford another struggle over its leadership now.”

Cullen shrugged and started racking the practice swords.  “She’s a guest here, the same as you.”  He dropped a sword into the rack with an unnecessary amount of force, eliciting a satisfyingly loud metallic rattle.  “You haven’t yet told me what you want us to do with her, or given me a good reason to try to intervene with Kathil.  Not that I ever have much luck talking her out of anything.”  He racked another sword, frowning.

“You have more influence with her than I.”  Eamon took a ragged breath.  “If you would turn Anora over to my guards, I can have her on her way back to her prison before sunset.”

He slammed home the last sword and turned to face the old arl.  “Her mother might object.”

“Her mother?”  Under the beard, Eamon’s jaw hard gone hard.  “Celia is dead.”

There was a soft cough from the doorway of the salle.  “I am afraid that is not quite the truth, is it?”  Both of them turned to see Celia striding across the wooden floor of the salle, her footsteps silent but for the swish and rustle of skirts around her ankles.  “And well you knew it, Eamon Guerrin.”

Eamon had gone pale—no, not pale, _gray_.  “You—you are—”

“Back in Ferelden,” she said, and glanced at Cullen.  “Briefly.  To put your mind at ease, Eamon, we are on our way north, to never trouble you again.  But you will not imprison Anora.  I will not allow it.”

Eamon raised his hand, briefly rested his forehead in his palm.  “Loghain said you were dead.  That you had left Gwaren, but succumbed to the winter fever on your way to Denerim.  I had no reason to believe that was not the case.”

“Didn’t you?”  Her expression held a hint of savage mockery.  Cullen thought that he wouldn’t like being on the receiving end of that look even a _little_.  “You’re telling me that baby brother Teagan—” she pronounced it as the Orlesians did, with emphasis on the last syllable— “did not mention that I might have had a reason to leave my home in such haste?”

He was silent for a moment.  Then the arl inclined his head towards Celia.  “He told me.  I had to press him on the subject, but he told me.  But we had no reason to believe that you hadn’t died as Loghain told us.”

“Except for how very _coincidental_ it all was, yes?  And how my former husband fell under the influence of Rendon Howe afterward.”  Celia was standing stock-still; filtered afternoon light through the windows softened her skin and set it nearly to glowing.  She glanced at Cullen.  “It is one of the oldest stories.  A woman weds a hero, but it turns out that heroes often do not make good husbands.  When he is gone for months, she turns for companionship to an arl’s younger brother.  When a sometime ally of her husband discovers the affair—and the consequences of it—she flees.”

Eamon growled.  “Don’t forget the fact that it turns out that your mother was _Orlesian royalty._ ”

“There is that.”  She smiled at Eamon, utterly serene.  “Of course, she was in both disgrace and exile, married to a Ferelden cabinet maker.  Anything I have accomplished in this world is despite her ties to Empress Celene, not because of it.  But this is old gossip, and I doubt that Warden Cullen wishes to hear us rehash old arguments.”

Cullen cleared his throat.  “It is...interesting.  Eamon, I don’t think you’re going to win this one.”

“I can see that.”  Eamon’s jaw was still hard; his lips pressed tightly together, nearly hidden by his beard.  “You said you were going to be on your way?”

“As soon as my son’s Mabari is weaned and ready to go with us.”  Celia’s smile widened; Eamon looked positively ill.  “My son Sionn.  He looks very much like his father.  You should meet him, Eamon.”

Eamon’s mouth opened, then closed.  He took a breath, visibly reaching for his composure.  “If you think it wise.”

“He is a Fereldan, through and through.”  Her eyes were half-lidded.  “Good afternoon, Eamon.  Warden.”  She turned and walked deliberately out of the salle, still silent except for her skirts. 

Cullen was left with Eamon.  He glanced at the arl, at a complete loss for words.  The color was returning to Eamon’s face, and he took a long breath.  “That _woman_.  She was _always_ trouble.  Like mother, like daughter.” 

“Did you know she was alive?” Cullen asked.

“I suspected.  Loghain was many things, but a good liar was _not_ among them.”  He shook his head slowly.  “I just hoped she’d stay wherever she was.  Would you do me a favor, Warden?”

“What favor?” he asked.

“Tell Kathil that she harbors within her walls not one but two people who threaten the stability of this country, and if she doesn’t do something about them, I will.”  His voice was grim, holding not threat but certainty.

Cullen’s mouth was abruptly dry.  Kathil had been friends with this man, in a way—but now she was wary, and he understood why, now.  _The wolf is old and he grows tired, but he still has fangs, and his mind is undimmed._

“I will let her know,” he said, and bowed slightly.  Then he left, trying not to hurry, nowhere near as composed as Celia had been.  He’d talk to Kathil, then Leliana.  Surely the bard would know whether Eamon could actually hurt them, if he put his mind to it.

 _Have faith.  All will be well._

He just wished he could believe it, some days.

* * *

 _Jowan:_

Perhaps in another life, he would have been a stonemason.

He was setting a row of stones in a hole in a wall near the outer gates.  There was little ambiguity with a wall like this.  The stones fit, or they did not.  There were no shortcuts, magical or otherwise, to the discipline of taking stones from the barrow and placing them in the wall.  The dwarves who were in charge of the wall-building seemed to regard him as something of a curiosity, the mage who actually _volunteered_ to help with the walls.  He suspected they had given him this hole to repair to keep him out of the way.

The work kept him out of the Vigil, at least, and that was all to the good, considering the company they were hosting.  Not just Eamon and Isolde—Jowan had successfully avoided being in the same room with them except for the one formal court that had been held in the fortnight since they had arrived—but Ser Rylock as well.

She had changed little since he had last seen her, when they had parted at Little Oakford.  But she had arrived a week ago and kicked up a fuss at the gates, telling the guard that she was here to join the Wardens.  In frustration, they had finally gotten Kathil to the gates.  Rylock had told her in no uncertain terms that, by the Maker, she was going to _stay_ on their doorstep until they took her in.  Kathil had surprised them all by giving Rylock a long look, and then telling her to take her things to the Warden wing.

He tried to be suspicious of her, but the Templar was so unabashedly _herself_ that he honestly couldn’t believe that she was a Chantry spy. He’d tried to talk to Kathil, to bring up the disaster that Ser Rialt had been.  But she’d just _looked_ at him.  He’d thrown up his hands and walked out. 

It was a beautiful day, cloudless skies a benediction over the Vigil, warm enough to make working shirtless an entirely appealing prospect.  In just trousers and boots, Jowan might have been any of the other men and women working the walls—except for the Warden’s Oath around his neck and the scars on his arms and hands, that was.  He attracted only a few cautiously curious glances from passersby making their way through the gates.  No one bothered to speak to him.

Jowan put a stone in a gap and wiggled it, frowning.  It settled in—not perfectly, but it would do.  With mortar, it would do _just_ fine. 

“Of all the places I expected to find you, this was the _very_ last,” a familiar voice said behind him.

He turned, startled.  Delilah Howe was standing there, her son on her hip.  Next to her was Ser Rylock, wearing that familiar forbidding look on her face.  She was in armor—plain, not embossed with a flaming sword.  “Were you looking for me?” he asked after giving Rylock a careful nod.  “The Commander knows where I am.”

“Not _looking_ , as such, but here we have found you.”  The shadows still gathered in Delilah’s gray eyes, sorrow settling in.  The loss of her husband had struck her hard, and she was still largely ensconced in a private world of grief.  Still, she’d made an effort to be friendly with him, despite knowing what he was.  He appreciated it, but tried to keep his distance.  “I wanted to take Thomas to see a place outside the walls that we used to go to as children.  Gwen graciously agreed to accompany me.”  Her gaze flicked over him evaluatively.  The tiny smile that curved her lips suggested that she liked what she saw, even if she wasn’t aware of it.

 _Nathaniel would_ kill _me._  Besides, there was Keili to think of.  __

“It’s not safe outside the walls, Maker knows,” Rylock said.  “And I need to take my mind off of tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry too much about the Joining,” he said.  “Or try not to, at least.  It looks like I owe Ilse a new mule.  She bet me that you’d be up here to join the Wardens before winter.”

“She did, did she?  She’s a meddlesome old woman, but she’s not often wrong.”  Rylock smiled a little.  The expression looked decidedly odd on her face, as if she wasn’t used to it.  She turned to Delilah.  “We should go—oh.”  There was a rising murmur at the gates.

Jowan turned, and saw what Rylock had seen.  Unbidden, his heart clenched tightly as his fists suddenly were.  He stepped back into the shadow of the wall, cold on his bare shoulders.

Knight-Commander Greagoir was at the gates, scowling at a guard who was attempting to deny him access to the Vigil.

 _Retired Knight-Commander,_ he reminded himself.  Still.  Best hope he passed by and didn’t spy Jowan.  He pulled on his shirt to the accompaniment of a gimlet glance from Rylock.  The scars on his arms itched with the weight of her regard.  He stepped back, put his back against the wall, lowered his head so sweat-damp hair fell into his eyes. __

At the gate, Maverlies had arrived and was giving the gate guard a tongue-lashing.  “The Commander has approved his entrance herself, you blighter, which you would have known if you’d bothered to _check the list_.  Rock-hauling rotation for you tomorrow, and maybe next time you’ll remember to use whatever is rattling around in that skull of yours.  Knight-Commander, I apologize for this idiot.”

“It’s just Greagoir now,” he said, in that tenor voice that had rung in the Tower for decades.  “If you’d let the Commander know I’m here?”

“I can do better than that,” Maverlies said.  She sounded as if she were smiling.  “This way, ser.” 

They were walking towards where Jowan leaned against the wall.  Rylock’s spine stiffened, her shoulders straightening as if the appearance of a former Knight-Commander were enough to recall endless hours of standing at attention in armor.  _Please, let him pass by,_ he prayed.  _Please.  If anyone is listening—_

Nobody was.

“Jowan,” came Greagoir’s voice, as if from a great distance.

He looked up.  The former Knight-Commander was standing scarce six feet away, staring at Jowan as if he had just turned over a rock and found something genuinely unpleasant beneath.  He looked so different out of armor.  Smaller.  “Warden Jowan now,” he said, and blessed the fact that his voice refused to shake. 

“So I’m told.”  The expression on Greagoir’s face didn’t change.  “The Grey has always been a haven for the worst that Thedas has to offer.  And the best.”  His tone said quite clearly in which category he considered Jowan.

“I am sure the apprentices whose lives I saved by undoing the demon’s work in the Harrowing Chamber would agree with you,” he said, unable to help the astringent edge of his voice.  “Not to mention the Templars who would have been killed had the creature been allowed to remain.  But we fixed your problem and took ourselves away.  Allowed you lot to live another day.”

To Jowan’s surprise, Greagoir’s expression softened, just a little.  It was as if a granite cliff face had somehow turned to sandstone—still rock, but slightly more yielding.  “Were you so unhappy in the Tower?” he asked.  “Was it such a terrible place?”

He stared.  This was the man who had sent Lily to the Aeonar, had tried to send Kathil.  Whose blade had drunk the blood of who knew how many apprentices and mages.  Standing here, out of armor, his only weapon the sword hanging from his belt and without even a shield...the world was shifting beneath Jowan’s feet, and he did not like it in the least.  He gestured sharply at the barrow of stones nearby, waiting for him to return to his task.  “Out here, I can occasionally be more than the power I was born with,” he said. “Sometimes, I can fix a wall, or patch a roof, or defend a village against a darkspawn attack.  The Chantry locks us up and sets guards over us to remind us that to most, we are nothing but a route for demons to get into the world.  Is it really such a surprise that some of us would prefer to be useful than to be _safe_?”

Because safe they had been, watched over every moment, living lives of quiet desperation. 

One corner of Greagoir’s mouth tugged upward, almost as if he intended to smile.  “Both you and that girl.  Spirits too wild to ever successfully confine. Irving argued to have both of you made Tranquil, but there was only evidence that you had begun experimenting with blood magic, not her.  Instead, he put Kathil through her Harrowing too young, and was surprised when she survived.”  He turned away from Jowan, towards Rylock.  “You look familiar, Ser...?”

“Rylock,” she said.  “I’m the one who was always sent after Anders.”

“Ah.  That’s right.  And if you’re here in Vigil’s Keep—”

“I’ve been recruited into the Wardens,” Rylock said.  She gave him a steady look.  “I decided that my talents could be better used here.”

Maverlies put her hand on Greagoir’s elbow.  “Ser, if we make haste we can be into the dining hall before dinner is served.”  He nodded, and let the lieutenant guide him towards the inner ward.  They disappeared into the cloud of people who walked through the outer ward, intent on their own business.

Rylock inclined her head at Jowan, and she and Delilah walked away without another word.  He took a long breath, and turned to the wall once more.

Stones.  Stones, and walls, he understood.  He would patch the wall and try to forget the sensation of the earth shifting beneath him, as if the world had changed utterly while he wasn’t looking.  He’d stick with what he understood, and try to let the rest take care of itself.

In the back of his mind there was Lily, always Lily, and it was no demon’s voice that rang in his memory.  _Get away from me, blood mage._

He put another stone in the gap.  Stone and mortar.  He would patch the wall, and it would stand.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

She studied the miniature portrait in her hands.  “Revka,” she said.  “No wonder she went by her family name.”

“She was named after her grandmother, so the family records I found claim,” Alfstanna said.  Kathil’s half-sister tapped the pile of faded, crumbling parchment sitting on the table next to her chair.  “Father kept everything concerning her in a locked chest in one of the storage rooms.  Typical of him, really.  He couldn’t bear to let anything of hers go, but he couldn’t stand it being around him, so he hid it away.”

The miniature was of a young woman, perhaps eighteen years old, her light hair tumbling loose over one shoulder.  She was dressed in a simple gown perhaps made of lawn or another light fabric, but the jewels in her hair and around her wrists spoke of her family’s wealth.  She sat in a chair , her hands folded in her lap.  The artist had painted her with a smile on her face, but there was something inexpressibly sad in her expression. 

Leaning against the leg of her chair was what appeared to be a pillow, and there was a symbol embroidered on it—a stylized pair of griffons facing each other, knotwork intertwined between them.  “I think that’s the family crest,” Alfstanna said.  “From what I can tell, this was painted just before she left Kirkwall for Ferelden.”

“Is there anything in those papers that said why she came here?”  Kathil turned over the miniature, looking at the back.  At her feet, Lorn stirred and lifted his head; next to him, Cerys was napping in a basket.  This was the single reception room on the Warden wing, a small room meant for intimate meetings.  “If she was from an old, rich Kirkwall family, I don’t see how she ended up in Ferelden.”

Alfstanna nodded.  “From what I can piece together from the letters, Father was not Revka’s first husband.  She was married very young—the records say she was thirteen—and had a child in short order. The baby was taken away to the Kirkwall Circle of Magi at three years old.  The family fell on difficult times, after that.  Revka’s twin sister Leandra fell in love with an apostate mage, and they fled here to hopefully find a better life.  Revka followed after her husband put her aside.  Somehow, she ended up meeting Father, and marrying him.  At least, I think that’s what happened.  I don’t know what happened with Leandra and Malcolm.  There are letters that speak of children, but Revka died so long ago that I have no idea where they might have gotten to.”

“It was good of you to bring this to me,” Kathil said, setting the miniature on top of the stack of parchment.  “I admit that I wasn’t expecting you to come.  Waking Sea is a fair distance from Amaranthine.”

“Shesen—remember her?—gave me a talking-to after you left, when you visited.”  Alfstanna had a rueful-half-smile on her face.  The arlessa had arrived about noon, part of the steady stream of incoming visitors.  Instead of riding in a carriage, she rode with her men, wearing leathers and a pair of longswords that had seen much use.  “She told me in no uncertain terms that I was to get over you being a mage, because—and I quote—’the two of you are two stones from the same outcropping, stubborn and proud’.  It took me a bit, but I managed it.  That you were partially responsible for having the arldom restored—well, I owe you a debt, and being angry wasn’t repaying it.”

That Shesen had been involved in Alfstanna’s change of heart did not surprise Kathil.  “The banns have been supporting you?” she asked. Outside the door, footfalls went past—booted feet, several of them, which had to be Sigrun and Nathaniel coming back from patrol.

Alfstanna nodded.  “We’ve been dealing with raider attacks.  The Avvars have been troublesome, much more so than usual, and the number of men who turn to banditry as a profession has been growing.  Someone is funding them, I think.  I’m working on finding out who.”  She gestured at herself, at the leathers she still wore.  “Father’s spirit would never rest well unless I was out there leading my men in battle, so I am on the field with Seahold’s men.  We’ve saved villages and crops, and the banns are grateful.  Mostly.” 

In the basket, Cerys stirred and woke.  Kathil leaned down to scoop her up.  opened her eyes and blinked, but did not cry.  “You can’t ever make everyone happy,” she said.  Still, I’m glad to hear you’re doing well.  And glad you came.” 

It surprised her a little that it was true.  Alfstanna’s outright rejection of her when she’d stumbled into Seahold, years ago, had been a wound that she hadn’t realized had finally healed.  She’d been nearly out of her head with pain still, returning from a visit to Orzammar that she still didn’t quite properly remember.  (Dagna had taken her in.  Or had that been a dream?  Difficult to tell.) 

“I was glad to be able to come.  If nothing else, it’s been amusing to watch you scandalize people.”  Alfstanna’s smile was genuinely bright.  Cerys stretched and wiggled with a rooting motion that Kathil had come to understand meant that she was hungry.  “And that little one wants her supper, I think.  I won’t disturb you any longer.”  The arlessa rose, her leathers creaking.  “I believe I know where to find my people.  My maid probably wants me to change into something pretty.” 

Kathil nodded, and let her go.  Se rearranged her shirt and let Cerys latch on, closing her eyes briefly as she felt the now-familiar rush of sensation as Cerys began to suckle.  And for this moment, for this still time in a small room in the Vigil, with dogs at her feet and her daughter at her breast, she could forget the approaching trouble, forget everything but the bewilderingly fierce feeling that was stealing over her, a primal force that she might call love.

 _I would burn the world to keep you safe.  And perhaps I will._

Cerys finished her meal soon enough, and after a bit of tending fell asleep again.  Kathil put her back in the basket and reached for her sword.  She’d been working on the blade when the page had arrived and announced that Arlessa Alfstanna wished to see her.

She unsheathed Spellweaver, ignoring the sparks that coruscated along the length of the blade.  She’d had this blade for—how long?  Six years.  She’d killed an Archdemon and a host of other, lesser creatures with it.  The curve of the blade, the notch near the hilt, the hilt whose wrappings she had replaced time and time again—the sword was as much a part of her as her arms, familiar as her own hands. 

As was the strange presence within the sword, something akin to intelligence.  “Old friend,” she murmured as she pulled out her whetstone, cloth, and oil.  “We’ll be put to use again soon.”

She rasped the stone along the blade, working the edge and smoothing out nicks.  The awareness within the blade subsided a bit, as if it were a cat she were stroking to sleep.  The sparks on the metal dwindled, almost vanishing.

The mageblade was the only one of its kind she had ever come across, and no armorer or enchanter she had ever found had any idea how to make another.  When she wrapped the shield of the Fade around herself, it existed on both sides of the Veil at once.

That was the only time the mageblade was ever truly awake, the only time she could feel the alien intelligence within it roar to attention.  It was no demon.  Perhaps it was a fragment of whatever ancient blacksmith had forged it, or a remnant of the first heart’s blood it had ever tasted.  Whatever it was, it seemed happiest when she was walking an old road.

Old roads.  A blade that would suffer the touch of none but a mage skilled in an art that had been nearly extinct for centuries.  An entity beneath the Vigil that was made of memory.

It was not a plan that was coming together in her mind.  Merely a set of thoughts, tending towards the same goal—a victory that might be claimed nearly bloodlessly, if she had the nerve to reach for it.  If it worked.  If it didn’t kill her in the process.

She oiled the blade and slid the metal home in the sheath.  “We will see, old friend,” she murmured.  “We will see.”

* * *

 _Zevran:_

He walked through the midnight silence of Vigil’s Keep, Cerys in his arms.  She had recently taken up crying as a fairly serious hobby, and the only thing that soothed her was to be walked about.  They took turns, Cullen and he more than Kathil, who was wearing herself thin with the many demands on her time and energy.  By silent accord, when Cerys woke up in the middle of the night and if feeding and changing did not quiet her, either he or Cullen would take her out for a stroll and let their mage sleep.

Tonight, it was his turn.  Cerys’s wailing had dwindled down to a discontented murmur, and he shifted her in his arms.  Truth be told, he did not mind this duty in the slightest, except for the fact that it took him from a warm bed and the most agreeable company in the world.  In the silence of the small hours, he would talk to his daughter, murmur stories that he half-remembered being told by the whores who had raised him.  And he would think, pick apart the conundrums of the day, tease out the meanings in the flurry of activity that was the Vigil at the moment.

In some far-off courtyard, drunken voices were butchering a song only vaguely recognizable as “The Shores of Par Vollen”.  He paused at a window, looking down at the inner ward.  The half-moon served only to deepen the shadows, and nothing stirred. 

And that _was_ a problem, wasn’t it?  Nothing was stirring.  The erstwhile Queen and her mother were still in residence, though the Mabari they had been waiting for was weaned and passage awaited them in Amaranthine.  Arl Eamon was stalking the Vigil, the promise of a storm in every step.  More people arrived every day; there was an assortment of Ferelden nobility in residence at the moment, as the celebration they had been promised was less than a fortnight away.  It was a delicately balanced situation, and the spark that might make the whole situation explode was not leaving.

It made the back of his neck prickle and itch.  Leliana, he knew, was not pleased; nor was the Tevinter mage she was so taken with.  (And _she_ had been a surprise, had she not?  A dangerous woman, nearly as dangerous as their bard, and far more of an unknown quantity.) 

A step in the hallway made him prick his ear and half-turn, automatically shielding Cerys with his body.  The figure at the end of the hallway stepped into the light of a wall-hung lantern, and resolved itself as Greagoir.  “You are up late,” he said, and smiled.  “And you do not have the excuse of having a very cranky and tired infant who wishes to be walked about, yes?”

“I do not sleep much, these days,” the Templar said, and inclined his head.  In that motion, in the lamplight, the resemblance between him and Cullen was striking.  Looking at Greagoir, it was possible to see the man that Cullen would be in forty years.

Then he remembered, and an all-too-familiar pang lanced through him.  He ignored it.  He was very good at ignoring that particular pain, the knowledge that letting Wardens into one’s heart was a guarantee that it was going to be broken far sooner than one might like. 

“Would you like to hold her?” he asked.  Greagoir nodded and came forward, passing through shadows as he did so.  The signs were visible, if one cared to look.  His hands trembled, and there were brief moments when his expression went blank, as if he were trying to think of something but could not remember what it might be.  _He has a year left,_ Kathil had said.  _Perhaps two._

He took Cerys gravely.  The baby, evidently intrigued at the prospect of being handed to someone she didn’t know well, stopped fussing and shoved her fist into her mouth, blinking sleepily up at Greagoir.  None of them truly knew how to deal with the Knight-Commander—Kathil was cautious and wary despite her best intentions, Cullen clearly wanted some sort of connection with the man who’d fathered him but had no idea how to go about it.  Zevran, as well, trod carefully.  If it had to do with Cerys, he always salted his actions with more than a modicum of caution. 

For his part, Greagoir was looking down at Cerys with a look that spoke of perhaps just a little bewilderment.  “It’s...strange to think of having a granddaughter.  Even if, perhaps, in a rather _roundabout_ way.”  He gave Zevran a sharp glance.

Zevran chuckled deep in his chest.  “I will share details if you wish, though I think you perhaps do _not_ wish.  Suffice it to say that Kathil claims us both as Cerys’s father, and Cullen and I are content with that.”  And there was a challenge in his words, one that he knew Greagoir heard: _are you going to bare your teeth and pound your chest about how immoral we are, perhaps?_

“I have seen stranger things in my time,” Greagoir said.  “There truly is nothing new under the sun, after all.”  He looked down at Cerys again, and shook his head.  “I cannot help but think of this little one as a glimpse of a life that passed me by, long ago.”

And what, precisely, did one say to that?

He opted to lean against the wall, trying to calm his jangling nerves.  _Really, Ariani.  Are you so protective of her that her grandfather holding her is cause for alarm?_   But even wry acknowledgement did nothing to ease the alarm that was spreading through his chest..  A breath passed, then another.

Greagoir’s eyes narrowed.  “Something is wrong.”

Zevran shook his head, trying to clear it.  “It is simply late—”

“I served in the Tower for thirty years,” Greagoir said.  “I know the moods of a keep and I tell you that _something is wrong._ ” 

There was a quick, light patter of feet approaching, and a small figure rounded the corner and came into view.  “Erlina,” Zevran said.  “What passes?”

Her face was pale in the lamplight.  “Anora sent me to wake the Commander,” she said in that perfectly aristocratic Orlesian accent.  “Sionn spotted lights from the walls where there should be no lights.  He and Remy are waking the guard, quietly.”

“We have unwelcome company, then.”  He held out his arms, and Greagoir handed the baby to him.  “Not unexpected, but—they _could_ have chosen their timing a little better, no?”

Erlina shook her head.  “If it’s the Chantry, this is the precise timing they would want.  They will seek to humiliate and discredit the Warden-Commander in front of the nobility.  But, quickly!  We must go.”

The rest of the night was spent on the battlements, arraying archers and sending orders quietly through the ranks.  Kathil was beside him as the sky began to pale, Cerys sleeping in her sling, cradled against her.  “Look,” she said, and pointed.  Her scarred face was pale and strained.

He drew a breath, feeling dismay despite himself.

The Chantry had arrived, indeed. 

* * *

 _Lorn:_

His human tries to explain _standoff_ to him, but he does not quite understand.

He understands that they are dug into this stone den; he understands that those who are arrayed outside are against them.  What he does not understand is _waiting_.  They are not even growling at one another.  They are simply passing pieces of paper through the gate every so often.  It has been _days_.

He lies by his human’s feet, letting the pup tug on his ears.  Fiann lies with her head on his hip.  People are coming and going in this place-surrounded-by-stone, the scent of barely suppressed panic in the air.  Those who are not fighting have been moved into the stone den proper, and have been given instruction to _stay there_.  Outside, there are knights.  Many, many knights. 

Lorn used to _like_ knights.

“If it comes down to a siege, we’re outnumbered thirty to one,” his human is saying to her dust-knight.  “Not just Templars out there, either.  There are mercenaries, as well.”  She rubs her forehead with a hand.  “I ought to string Eamon up.”

“And that would lose you Alistair’s support as well as any credibility you’ve built up with the nobility,” her dist-knight says.  “Which he is betting will protect him.  He’s gambling that you’ll give Anora up in order to help make this _problem—_ ” he waves a hand at the big gates, closed tightly— “go away.  With just the Chantry to deal with, we _might_ prevail.”

“Except that I offered the hospitality of the keep to Anora,” his human says.  “The Wardens can’t allow anyone they’re protecting to be taken from them.  It’s a small precedent, to be sure, but it will be followed by another, and another.”  She sighs gustily.  “Just because she’s overstayed her welcome doesn’t mean I can throw her to the wolves.”

“Then I hope you have a plan,” the dust-knight says, and there is a growl in his voice.  “We’re not ready for a siege.”

“I know.”  The words are a small, trembling sigh from his human.  “I know.”

And she turns away, and she is shaking, and the smell of dust is emanating from her.  There is no word that the humans have for that scent, for the thing that makes his human smell that way.  It is sorrow, and other things besides, and he does not like it when she smells that way.

She drops to one knee beside him; he lifts his head and presses it into her thigh.  Her hand on his neck is cold.  “You will protect Cerys,” she says.  “You and Fiann.”

Yes, they will.  Because they are _good dogs._

“The best,” his human says.  “The very best.”

And she has made a decision, and lightning is mingling with dust, and—

Smoke.

He whuffs once, urgently. 

“There’s a fire on the other side of the gates!”  The dust-knight points.  “They’re—are they trying to burn through the gates?  They have to know that’s idiocy—”

His human’s elf is there, then, though Lorn did not smell him coming.  “Only if they did _not_ have barrels of something I think might be a touch explosive poised to throw at the gates, no?  They will force us to defend the outer ward—”

The world bends.

He is curled around his human’s pup in her blanket, and her mouth is open and she is screaming, and people around them are screaming, and his human and her elf and her dust-knight are picking themselves up from where they have fallen and Fiann is on her feet and howling, howling—

The gates are gone.

Lorn surges to his feet, growling, and his bold heart is leaping in his chest.  For he is a good dog, and he has a pup to guard, and he fears nothing in this life or the next.  Not even death.

His human picks up her pup and hands her to the tall archer, then speaks a word to Lorn.  He and Fiann lope next to the archer as he runs towards the heart of the stone den, where they will guard the pup.  He knows about guarding dens.  A den as fine as this one will stand a long time, even without gates.

It is time, and past time, and those who growl at them will be silenced at last.

* * *

 _Leliana:_

Amity had slipped away from her.

She sighted on one of the armored men shoving their way through the erstwhile gate and her world narrowed down to the still point that was his throat. 

Breathe in.

“FIRE!”

The deadly song of thirty arrows flying through the air sounded, and some of the men on the gate fell.  Leliana nocked another arrow and spared a glance for Lieutenant Maverlies, who was standing next to her.  “On your mark.”

Maverlies grinned and drew.  A heartbeat later, she barked “Fire!” once more, and the song of the arrows sounded again.  Ahead of them, chaos reigned as swordsmen clashed, holding the gap in the wall.  The Templars had used their abilities to good purpose, casting a series of cleansings through the gate just after the explosion.  But their planning had paid off; only Kathil and Jowan, the two mages who recovered the most quickly from the cleansing, had taken the full brunt of it.  Amity had been on the fringes of the cleansings when they’d hit.  Keili and Kinnon were stationed in the inner ward _precisely_ for that reason.

Sigrun went pelting past, daggers bared, and slashed into the fray.  Oghren was already in there, roaring.  The opposition surged forward, trying to break through, and the defenders shoved back.  There were no Templars in the gap.  The front line was made up of mercenaries.  “Split!” Maverlies shouted. “Half with Leliana, half with me, flank the gate!”

They divided with no fuss, and Leliana led the archers around to the left, so they could get a better view of the chokepoint.  She tried to find Amity, but there was no sign of her.

At least there wasn’t until a few moments later, when a knot of people shoved their way towards the front lines—Kathil, Keili, Jowan, and Kinnon.  Amity trailed behind.  The Warden-mages were moving fast; the Templars were likely readying a second volley of cleansings.  “Fire!” Leliana shouted, and her arrow flew true even as she was reaching for the next. 

 _Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

“Maker,” she murmured.  “Protect us from your faithful, for they have lost their way.”

The prayer was lost in the din of the battlefield, shouts, screams, orders barked and those in the front lines gave way, stepped back, _fled—_

A wave of fire shot through with lightning rolled over the mercenaries, and beneath it men and women died.

Leliana had seen Keili work before, create storms of deadly intensity with less effort than it took most mages to light a campfire.  She had never seen the Primal mage work with another mage, but that was exactly what she was doing now, she and Jowan and Kinnon chanting in unison, Kathil at their backs with her hands spread.  Within ten heartbeats, every person in the gate arch and for twenty yards beyond it was dead.

Behind the other mages, Amity was gesturing and speaking rapidly.  Within the gate arch, the air began to shimmer.  A moment later, the gap in the wall was filled with a shield seemingly made of blue and violet light.  An arrow, loosed by some wag on the other side of the wall, impacted, sparked, and fell to the ground.

 _I am not the sort of mage who rains fiery death down on my enemies,_ Amity had said, once.  _Instead I bind them, slow them, alter their perceptions. It is a far quieter power, and easy to hide.  And extremely useful, in my line of work._

Leliana let out a long breath and put the arrow in her hand back in her quiver.  “Bows down,” she called.  “We’re done for the moment.”  The archers nodded and obeyed, and Leliana went in search of Kathil.

She was in the center of a knot of Wardens, all peering through the shield to the forces beyond.  “They’re backing off for the moment,” Sigrun said, a spyglass to her eye.  She paused and fiddled with the glass, twisting it.  “I think they may have brought some ballistae, though.”

“The shield is only a stopgap,” Amity said.  “It will start to thin in an hour and disappear completely in two.”  She looked at said shield with a critical twist to her mouth.  “Not my best work, but it’s a larger portal than I’ve ever tried to shield before.”

“It worked,” Leliana said.  Zevran brushed by her, came to twine his fingers with Kathil’s.  Leliana stepped forward to do the same with Amity.  “Well.  We have earned some breathing room, but what do we do with it?”

Kathil straightened, her free hand going to the hilt of her sword.  “We parley.  Time to talk face to face with the Grand Cleric.  Amity, if you open that shield for me to pass, can you re-cast it?”

“Give me a quarter hour,” Amity replied.  “But yes.”  She leaned into Leliana, putting her shoulder against her. 

Kathil closed her eyes for a moment. “Could someone do me the favor of fetching Nathaniel here?  I have some instructions to give him.”  She opened her eyes and looked around at all of them, her mouth set in a grave line.  “I’m going to see if I can get the Grand Cleric to come talk to me, face to face.  I’ll need to go out there.  Alone.”

“No!” Zevran and Cullen said, almost in unison.  They stopped and glanced at each other.  “It is _madness_ , Kathil,” Zevran continued.  “Truly.  We have not come all this way for you to simply throw away your life like this.”

“They have us pinned down, and we cannot afford even a brief siege,” Kathil said.  “And I am not going to throw my life away.”

“You and five hundred Templars,” Cullen said, sounding almost strangled.  “Tell me how this ends with you alive, because I don’t see it.”

Kathil shook her head.  “In the Grand Cleric’s ideal world, this ends with me humbly bending the knee to her, admitting I was wrong, and letting her Templars into Vigil’s Keep without a fuss.  And handing over Anora, into the bargain.  She knows we’re at a disadvantage, and she knows I have twenty-five banns and arls in here to witness.”

“You could threaten to kill them if she doesn’t back down.” Sigrun said. 

“I doubt she cares,” Leliana said.  “The Ferelden Chantry is very aware that its power is beginning to slip.  If we threaten the nobility, they will simply use that to prove that we are in the wrong, and they are right.”

Zevran was eyeing Kathil.  “I believe that look on your face means that you have a plan.”

She quirked the scarred side of her mouth.  “Yes.  It involves me going out there and burying the sword, and talking to Grand Cleric Elemena.  If I do this right, they will _all_ go home without so much as another crossbow shot.  If I do this wrong, well...just hope I do it right, yes?”

“Bury the sword?” Sigrun asked.  She peered up at Kathil, suspicion written on her face.

“An old Fereldan custom,” Leliana said.  “The person who asks to parley buries the tip of their sword in the earth.  It means you intend to bargain in good faith.  But unless I’m mistaken...Kathil, what are you planning to _do_?”

She shook her head.  “It would take too long to explain, and here’s Nathaniel.  I need to talk to him for a moment.”  She pulled the archer aside and began talking in a low voice.  Nathaniel’s face went stony, and he shook his head, but Kathil snapped at him that _I am your commander_ , and he subsided.

Then she came to Leliana.

She had seen her friend angry, mourning, heartbroken.  She had stood beside her as they fought an Achdemon together.  She had seen ice take her expression, had seen her inexorable as a glacier in the face of overwhelming odds.

She had never seen this expression on her face before, and it frightened her to her bones.

“I’m glad you came back,” Kathil said.  “Whatever happens...do what you must, Leliana.”

She stepped close and took Kathil’s face in her hands.  The expression in her eyes changed not a flicker.  “I will.  As you have always done what you must, dearest.”  She leaned in and laid a kiss on the mage’s forehead.  Her skin was cold despite the warmth of the day, and the smell of lightning stung the back of Leliana’s throat.  “Be careful,” she murmured.  “Your daughter needs you.”

“I know.”  Just those two words, uttered with something not entirely like dignity, and Kathil was pulling away from her.  Leliana let her go, watched her turn away. 

It felt familiar, this moment.  It was Vigil’s Keep instead of Denerim, the Chantry instead of the Archdemon, but the moment was the same.  _If we do not see each other again, dearest, I hope that you always remember that I love you._

Leliana breathed in.  Put her arm around Amity.

Waited to see how the song would end.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

There were so many people here, and nothing she could say to any of them.

Leliana, she knew, understood.  Nathaniel was not happy about his orders, but he would do what she’d told him if it came to that.  The others Wardens she spoke to briefly but could give them no details about what she was about to do, or why.

Greagoir was there, watching her, and she nodded to him as she passed by.  Words choked her throat, things she could never say.  _I am sorry that Cerys is too young to remember you.  I wish we all had more time._

She came back around to Cullen and Zevran, who pulled her into a three-way embrace before she could object.  “You cannot do this,” Zevran said in a low, fierce voice.  “ _Mi alma,_ you _must_ take us with you.”

“Taking you out there with me would only put all of us in more danger.”  She set her forehead against the side of his head.  He was feverishly warm against her, she could feel it even through her armor.  “Zev.  _You must survive._   Both you and Cullen.  Cerys needs her fathers, and I need to know that you are all safe.” 

“Even if Elemena agrees to this, we still have the mercenaries to deal with,” Cullen said.  “I don’t trust them not to decide that they’d be better off eliminating you.”

“And you being out there would help me how, exactly?”  She twisted her mouth.  “Except to get us all killed.  Please, the two of you.  Trust me for a little bit.  I need to know that whatever happens, the two of you will be able to take care of Cerys.  If everything goes wrong—well, you both know the plan.”

 _The plan_ being a bolthole that few knew about that led into the mountain behind the Vigil.  It came out some distance from the fortress.  From they would go to Amaranthine, and then take  a ship to Orlais and find somewhere they could hide themselves until Cerys was grown. __

Zevran was looking at her steadily.  “You are planning on doing something foolish,” he said.

“Probably,” she admitted.  “But like I said, if this goes well, we can end this without further bloodshed.”

He took a deep breath, and there was a solemn darkness in his expression.  “I am put in mind of the day you said goodbye to me at Denerim’s gates.  Only this time you will be truly alone.  There will be no Alistair to guard your back, no Leliana to cut down your foes as they approach, no Wynne to keep you standing when you are injured.  If you truly wish to die, there are better ways.”

She couldn’t explain.  It would take far too long, and Zevran and Cullen were unlikely to think the gamble was worth it.  She tightened her arms around the two of them, and they pulled her closer.  She fought tears—if she started crying now, she might not stop. 

Kathil could not afford to lose her resolve now.

“I have to do this,” she said.  Then she kissed Zevran, lips and tongues lingering.  Then Cullen, whose mouth was hard and angry on hers.  “I should go.  I love you, both of you.”

It was one of the hardest things she had ever done to pull back from their embrace, to turn away from their questioning and fearful expressions.  They stood shoulder to shoulder as they watched her go.

She approached the barrier.  There was a troop of Templars on the other side, eyeing the shimmering in the air.  The bodies of the mercenaries had been dragged to the side and laid out in neat rows by the fence.  “I would speak to Grand Cleric Elemena, alone.  I will come outside of the shield, by myself.  I will bury the sword and talk truce with her.”

One of the Templars, the apparent leader, narrowed his eyes.  “You are a mage, Warden-Commander.  Why should we trust you?”

“You may use the cleansing on me if it will make you feel better,” she said.  “Just—tell her I wish to talk.” 

The Templar nodded and gestured at one of his fellow, who strode off into the small army gathered outside the Vigil.  The Templars in their emblazoned breastplates and their skirted robes stayed separate from the mercenaries in leathers and mail, and the glances exchanged between the two groups were full of unease if not outright hostility.  Strange times made for strange bedfellows indeed, and Kathil wondered just how Eamon had managed to pull this off.  He had said nothing to her when she’d asked, turned away when she’d lost her temper and shouted.  “I am done with you,” was all he’d said.

The crowd in front of the gates stirred, and the Grand Cleric emerged.  She was leaning on the arm of a young Chantry sister.  Though she moved slowly, and rumor was that she was mostly deaf, there was still a fierce intelligence in her expression.  She stopped, and spoke briefly to the sister, who nodded and raised her chin towards Kathil.  “Her Grace would speak to the Warden-Commander.  She must submit to the cleansing before she approaches.”  The mousy little woman had a surprisingly strong voice.  “Her Grace would like nothing better than to end this without more bloodshed.”

“As would I.”  She took a breath, raked her hand over her hair.  “Amity.  Lower the shield.”

The Tevinter woman murmured, and the shield sparked and vanished.  A moment later, the familiar feeling of the cleansing rolled over her, so much harsher than she was used to.  She bowed her head and let the nausea pass.

Then she raised her head and stepped forward, through the gate arch.  She felt rather than heard the shield come up behind her.

 _Please, whoever might be listening...let this go well.  Else we all may be lost._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are starting a swift plunge towards the end. The rest of Pitiless Games is complete, and will be posted over the next few days. I am so excited to finally have gotten here and be able to share this with you!


	14. The Tiger's Roar

_The moment that those created creatures touched the mortal world,_  
_they were lost—for the Old Gods sang in a voice too like our Elpis,_  
_for they were her creatures and hers alone, her comfort in hours lonely._

 __  
_And the Listeners were made Twisted by the mortal world,  
_   
_by the mad song of the favorites of Hope, her dragons, her lovers.  
_   
_Bound to their call, to their song, they cannot hear her!  
_   
_They find her creatures, but not their Voice!_

 __  
_Our grief is a great bell tolling, mortals,  
_   
_for the pure arrows of the Unwilling  
_   
_have become tainted, and twist all they touch:_

 __  
_For when Despair speaks, all mortals listen._

— _from the Canticle of Demons, stanza five: of the Twisted_

* * *

 _Kathil:_

She walked slowly towards the Grand Cleric, measuring every footfall, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Murmurs rippled through the gathered forces as she crossed bloodstained and scorched earth. Armor creaked and scraped softly.

She knew how she looked, in her armor, her sword hung at her hip, wisps of hair that had escaped her braid ruffled by a cold, freshening breeze. Her mouth was so dry.

Kathil paused about twenty feet away from the Grand Cleric, and drew her sword slowly. The Templars nearest her laid their hands on their sword hilts, but did not attack. "I bury the sword and would speak to you plain," she said, using a phrase that had been used in Ferelden since its founding, making sure her voice was pitched to carry. She turned Spellweaver's tip towards the earth and then struck downward. The blade's tip slipped between cobblestones and sunk in half a thumb's length. It was enough to satisfy custom, and enough to reassure the Grand Cleric that she would have a few moments' warning if Kathil tried to attack her.

Elemena came forward, still on the arm of that mousy sister with the astonishing voice. "I am glad you have decided to be reasonable," the Grand Cleric said. Her own voice was soft and creaky. "This is Sister Orphea. She is my scribe and my voice."

Kathil inclined her head in acknowledgement. "You may wish to keep your opinions of my _reasonableness_ in reserve until you hear what I have to say," she said. "So. What is it that you want, Your Grace? Your notes were not what I would call _clear_ , precisely."

"The Chantry has a difficult task in these dark days," Elemena said. Her gaze was fixed on Kathil with a steady brightness. "We cannot afford a schism, and that is precisely what you have been fostering. We seek to demonstrate to the faithful that Ferelden is indeed united under Andraste and the Maker. To that end, we are willing to make some…concessions."

"Such as?" Kathil asked.

"Allow the Chantry entrance into Vigil's Keep. We will allow you to keep your daughter until after she is weaned. Templars will monitor the situation within the keep, with leave to act should things get out of hand. You have far too many mages within your walls, and no guidance for them." She was so _calm_ , was the terrible thing. She was proposing turning the Vigil into another Kinloch Hold, asking that Kathil acknowledge that the Chantry was placed above even the Wardens in power.

 _I frighten her._ The thought was unbidden but inescapable. This was Elemena's last chance to force the Grey Wardens to acknowledge the primacy of the Chantry. The fervor of goodwill for the Grey after the Blight's defeat had died down, and the Wardens themselves were at their weakest since the Archdemon's fall. If the Grand Cleric did not force them to bend the knee now, it was likely they never would.

 _Which would be all to the good._

"And Anora?" Kathil asked, keeping her voice steady. "The question of the former Queen is a purely secular matter, is it not?"

"No matter is beneath the attention of the Maker," Elemena replied. "Thus there is no such thing as a secular matter. These forces—" her gesture encompassed the mercenaries who stood and watched—"have a vested interest in her safe return. We will _not_ have her free. She influences too many wags and layabouts to speak against the Crown." She smiled, just a little. "We wish a peaceful, united Ferelden. This country has suffered too many blows to be able to afford dissent."

Kathil took a long breath, and rested her hand on Spellweaver's pommel. The sword was vibrating faintly. _Almost time, old friend._ "The Grey Wardens have always been an order apart from the laws of the lands it finds itself in, empowered to do what it must to protect the land and people from darkspawn. As Warden-Commander, I cannot afford to allow the Chantry to dictate what the Grey does in Ferelden." She raised her voice, knowing it would carry above the sound of the wind and the restless army. "Also, Your Grace, you may _not_ have my daughter. Not now. _Not ever._ "

The Grand Cleric's eyes narrowed, and she gestured. A Templar behind her made a familiar motion, and Kathil winced as the cleansing made her stomach attempt to turn it inside out once more. _She really is taking no chances, is she?_ Elemena had lost her kindly little smile, and the steel beneath the velvet glove was showing through. "You have no way to resist a siege for more than a week or two, and that shield over the gate arch will not last forever. There are more forces coming, Warden-Commander. They will have catapults and siege equipment. Would it not be better to preserve the lives of those in your care, rather than wasting them in pointless battle?"

"You make the mistake of thinking us helpless," Kathil said. "Let me tell you a few things, Your Grace." She looked around at the gathered forces, Templars shifting uneasily, mercenaries with their arms crossed. "There is not one but three Circles of Magi in Ferelden right now. There is the Tower Circle. There is the Circle of the Grey. And there is the Circle in Stone, in Orzammar. Only one of those Circles is under Chantry control. This is _not_ something you can change. Word is spreading that Orzammar provides shelter and useful employment to mages. Families whose children show signs of the talent flee to the Vigil in hope that their children will not be taken by the Templars. We take them in, teach them. When they are of age, they may choose to go to Orzammar, or to the Circle Tower, or join the Grey. But we will _not_ turn those children over to you. This has already escaped your control, Your Grace. Do not think you can erase the idea that there are alternatives to the three fates of a mage."

Elemena's expression had been growing darker and darker. "Do not presume to dictate to _me_ what is and what will be," she said. "The Chantry _will_ bring you to heel, Commander Amell. If it takes a siege, we are prepared."

Unexpectedly, laughter bubbled up in Kathil's throat. She swallowed it down after a single chuckle escaped. "I am no Mabari," she said. "Nor wolf either." She tightened her hand on Spellweaver's pommel, felt the sword's power stir. "The Chantry has no sovereignty over the Grey Wardens. The Chantry has no sovereignty over _me._ " She took a deep breath.

 _It is time, old friend._

Her magic was trickling back after the last cleansing, so very slowly. But it took only the thinnest thread of power to touch what lived within Spellweaver. One tiny pebble for the mountainside to begin to shift.

The power in the sword woke, and the sparks dancing along the blade coalesced into a cold flame that crawled along the edge, sending power out and away from itself. The Grand Cleric shied away, and the Templars, alarmed, released the cleansing. So many of them—she was almost blind with it, her power _gone_ , locked away, held hostage to another's will—

The sword continued to brighten, and the air took on a subtle shimmer. No one had ever taught these Templars how to shut down a magic done not by a mortal mind but by an object. That was something only taught to mages who hunted their own kind—and the Chantry had brought none with them. And fifteen heartbeats after she had told the sword to begin, it was finished, and Kathil's power came rushing back to her. The waters of the Fade eddied silently around her ankles.

She was now standing on an old road.

It had been so _obvious_ , in hindsight. Arcane warriors were meant to fight not only mortal threats but those things that lived on the old roads, things that lurked where the Veil was thin. They would need some way to choose their battlegrounds.

And now—

"I name you Memory and call you Vigilance," she said, lacing every word with power, focusing her will downwards, into the earth. "And by your bindings I call you, defender of the mountain!"

It was a gamble. A desperate, _stupid_ gamble. If Memory did not answer, she was dead. If the creature under the mountain proved greater than its bindings, they were _all_ dead.

 _Facing down the Archdemon was a stupid gamble, too._

One moment the air next to her was empty. The next, Ser Bran stood there, his eyes wide, looking exactly as he had the moment before he had vanished beneath the vigil. "Commander—"

But that moment of humanity lasted only a breath, and Bran's expression went cold and inhumanly still. _This rabble? It is barely an army. Only scarcely a mob._ Memory's avalanche of a voice was disdainful. _Would you have it destroyed?_

"No." All around her, arrows were nocked, swords were coming out of their sheaths, the din of battle beginning to wash over her—she had so little time—

 _Be calm._

"I want them to remember," she said. "I want them to remember what I remember. I want them to know what it is to be a mage."

Memory closed Bran's eyes in assent.

Then she felt herself wrapped in power as if by a huge hand, squeezed and squeezed. Her ribs creaked.

She did not have even enough breath left to scream.

 _The rat attacking her in the tunnel, the pain in her leg and the panic, and the power bursting forth from her, freezing it solid. The excitement of knowing_ I did that _, of knowing that she could do something amazing, something she'd never seen done. Bafflement when Shesen had seen her and started crying, when her father had gone grave and silent. Why weren't they happy for her?_ Why don't you love me any more?

 _Being handed over to the Templars, treated with indifferent cruelty all the way there, cuffed when she tried to talk. Arriving and having her memories taken; settling into new routines, dull and tired and compliant. Discovering what place there was for her, guided in the use of her power by grown mages who taught her to know her power and her limits. Endless lectures about demons, their duty to the Chantry, the danger they posed to normal people._

 _Making friends, and friends dying under Templar swords, other friends killing themselves. The Tower cat possessed by a demon. Every moment watched over by merciless men with swords. Secret friendships, a connection made with a young Templar, the friendship both innocent and excitingly forbidden. Standing on the shore of the Tower's island with Jowan, and declaring that free water felt different._

 _Falling in love with Sati's smile and then the rest of her, two years when life in the Tower did not seem so bad after all._ I wish I could remember my parents. _Then Sati vanishing, leaving nothing behind but a cold bunk and questions that could not be answered. Secret coteries, secret powers, quiet abuses behind closed doors. Kneeling in the Chapel at the feet of the statue of Andraste, praying_ give me the strength to end this, give me the courage to join my love. _Prayers going unanswered. So many prayers, and all unanswered._

 _Betrayal, and freedom—of a sort. But never freedom from her power, from how people looked at her. No freedom from the fear of the whispering shadows, of what waited to consume her should she falter. A man with Templar powers offering her a rose, and learning that the cleansing could be a gentle thing, kind as a lover's touch._

 _Losing her Templar, killing an Archdemon, releasing the soul of the Old God to death. Then the years of hunger and want, of madness and an incessant hunt for something—anything—that could set what was wrong with her right. Her friends gone except for her dog, her heart shattered along with her mind. Feverish days and nights healing from wounds that nearly killed her. The decision to return to the Tower, to return to a familiar cage._

 _Then things changing once more, a hidden love opening up to accept her in. Standing before a court martial and declaring_ Cullen is _my_ Templar. _Everything that had gone wrong after that; everything that had gone right._

 _Holding her daughter for the first time and deciding that Cerys would_ not _grow up in captivity. That her soul would not be stunted by struggling to come into adulthood in a cage where no mage was allowed to be an adult. The gentle knowledge of Cullen's presence. The many times he had saved her: from demons, from mortals, from herself._

 _Freedom was worth any price she could think to pay._

"You have lost," she said. Though she spoke quietly, her voice was amplified thousands of times, sent straight into the minds of the thousand men and woman who stood at the gates. "This place is protected by forces beyond your control, and the idea that not all mages must be confined is spreading like wildfire. The Grey Wardens have no interest in being anything other than a neutral party in Ferelden. Go, and harass us no longer."

The feeling of Memory's power wrapped around her receded a little, enough for her vision to return to the present. The Grand Cleric was staring at her, her mouth open. As was, it seemed, everyone on this side of the gates.

Around Kathil and the image of Bran, there was a scattered half-circle of arrows. Evidently she had been fired on, and Memory had protected her. She hadn't even _noticed_.

Elemena said something to the sister whose arm she leaned on. The sister nodded, and raised her voice. "Templars! We go. We will continue this discussion at a later time."

The reaction among the knights was almost comically swift. Swords were sheathed and men and women in armor turned almost as one away from Vigil's Keep. A burly Templar strode forward to bodily pick up the Grand Cleric, cradling her against his mailed chest as if she were a child and weighed no more than a sack of wheat. Within moments, the Templars were in full retreat.

 _I wonder if I will regret not killing them all, some day._

The mercenaries stayed behind, looking at each other with acute unease written on every face. "You can go, tell your employers that Anora is protected in the Vigil, and live another day," she told them. "Or you can stay, and die to the last. It makes no difference to me."

 _Be reasonable. Please._

If it came down to it, she did not know _how_ the bindings on Memory worked, only knew that it was her affinity to the Vigil that allowed her to call it, and the old road that extended its range outside of the walls. If she gave the order to the being to kill the mercenaries, she had no idea if those bindings would hold. Those bindings were held with the blood of countless ancient sacrifices, and it was a possibility that taking the lives of an army would allow it to break free.

She breathed out, and back in. She glanced at Bran next to her and saw something like eagerness in his expression. One of the mercenaries, a woman wearing silverite instead of leather or red steel, barked an order.

It was astonishing, how quickly five hundred people could walk away when there was a creature waiting to eat their lives behind them.

It was over. Kathil realized that her hand was still clenched around Spellweaver's hilt. "Thank you," she said to Memory. "You may return." She tried not to think about Bran, about that moment he had been himself when he had first arrived. She could have those nightmares later, thinking about one of her people still somehow _alive_ in the depths of the mountain.

Memory bowed Bran's head. "'Ware," it said, like distant thunder. "'Ware what comes, Commander, for she is hungry and you are foolish."

Then the being was gone as if it had never been there, and Kathil realized what the overwhelming feeling of _presence_ had been blocking from her senses.

Demons.

They were _crowded_ behind the Veil. The too-thin Veil, this place where the two worlds were held artificially close to one another. Tingling swept over her, head to toes, and she couldn't move. _Cullen—_

He was not here. She had told him to stay back.

 _I am a bridge,_ she had told Leliana. _And some day, one or more of the presences are likely going to decide to cross over._ Blood, hair, sweat, tears—she had given bits of herself to so many presences. Made so many bargains, in return for knowledge she could get nowhere else.

And now the debt had come due. All of it at once. She gritted her teeth, blanked her mind, tried every trick to bolstering her will that she had learned. But there were so many of them. So many of them, and they all had a claim on her.

 _If I fall, they will come through._

She pulled Spellweaver from between the cobblestones, tried to dismiss the power that had created the old road. It faded, but slowly. Too slowly. And too late, she saw that it was not the thinness of the Veil that had called them. No matter how thick the Veil was— _she_ was the weak point. The doorway. The bridge. Her scars felt as if they were aflame, and she knew she must be shedding that white light.

The memory of Despair's quiet voice threaded through her soul, the answer to the question of how she avoided becoming one of the Unwilling. _If you do not wish to become one of them, you must stay in your own world. You walk the line between worlds, thrice-bound. Do not think it will be so easy to stay on your own side._

She had known.

Kathil's will was rapidly eroding, her body wracked with pain as the demons pressed down on her. If she allowed them through—her people would die. Her family would die.

 _And I will prove the Chantry right._

She took a deep breath, then another, then turned to look at the gap where the Vigil gates had once been. The shield was gone and people were pouring through, Cullen and Zevran at the lead, nearly running towards her. _No. Stay back. Stay away!_ But she could not make her mouth move. Could not speak a word.

 _I am sorry._

She met Cullen's eyes, then Zevran's. Both men slowed as if they saw something on her face that alarmed them, and Cullen held up a hand to slow those behind him.

Her hand tightened on Spellweaver's hilt. _Once more, old friend, and then you can rest. This is what I need—_

The awareness within the sword howled silently as it poured power out of itself and Kathil slashed at the air—behind the blade, darkness opened—the sword went abruptly silent and fell from her nerveless hand—

Kathil pitched forward into the Fade, and around her opened her dream-body, the dragon, the Archdemon, the Old God.

Then all was silence.

* * *

 _Cullen:_

For a moment, it appeared as though they had won.

Standing still while dozens of arrows were loosed at Kathil was one of the more difficult things he had done in his life. But the arrows had bounced off some invisible surface, and she hadn't even flinched. A thousand men and women had stood as if spellbound. Some of them wept, others bent and vomited. He had no idea what she was doing to them, or even what power she was using to do it with. The hazy form next to Kathil had looked around with burning eyes, and after a few moments, the Templars retreated. Then, the mercenaries.

He hadn't believed her when she'd said a bloodless victory was possible. But, for a little while, it seemed as if she had been right.

Amity took the shield down and they all hurried through the gates as the hazy figure vanished. It was _over_. They had _won_.

Except then Kathil's scars had started glowing, and she bowed her head.

He was too far away from her to close the Veil, and as she turned with Spellweaver naked in her hand he saw her eyes, and his stride faltered. There was no iris in them, no pupil. Just the waters of the Fade rushing, shedding light where no light should be.

 _No._

Spellweaver flared and she slashed with it left to right, and he felt the sickening sensation as of the Veil sundering completely, the Fade and the mortal world touching.

Kathil fell into that darkness, and was gone. A heartbeat later, so was the tear.

He and Zevran somehow made it to the place where she had vanished. Cullen was unaware of crossing the distance, just of arriving and knowing that the tear had repaired itself as if it had never been, and the old road that had been here was merely an echo, a memory, and fading swiftly.

Spellweaver lay shattered on the cobblestones. The pieces were twisted and melted, as if whatever last spell Kathil had cast had used enough power to not just break the sword but destroy it entirely.

Zevran was looking at him, a wild hope in his eyes. "Can you—"

He had pulled her back once before, in the Harrowing Chamber. But there was no tear. Nothing to reach into. "No," he said, and hated himself for it as he watched the hope die in the assassin's eyes. "The tear is gone. So is she."

" _Why?_ " The word was vicious, bursting from Zevran as if he had tried to hold it back and failed. His hazel eyes had gone flat and cold. "Why would she do this? The Chantry had retreated. There was no _reason_."

Leliana was next to them, and her voice was trembling with unshed tears. "She told me she had made—bargains." The bard bent to pick up one of Spellweaver's pieces. "She said that she had made herself into a bridge between the mortal world and certain entities, and was hoping that the debts would come due only after she was safely dead." Leliana was staring down at the piece of twisted metal that lay in her palm. She swallowed, and struggled to speak. "I…I think she may have been protecting us."

They both stared at Leliana. So many little things made sense—strange and fell powers that Cullen had never heard of before, comments she had made that, in retrospect, he had completely misinterpreted. Zevran was shaking his head. "She told me of that, but told me that she had made no compacts with demons. Only spirits."

"A demon and a spirit are differences of degree rather than kind," Cullen said. The world was altogether too bright, and he was so cold. "And it is possible that she lied."

"What—what will happen to her?" Leliana asked. "It's not supposed to be possible for people to go physically into the Fade…"

Cullen's throat closed briefly. "The Tevinter magisters managed it," he said quietly. "And they became…something else."

Greagoir was there, now. When had he arrived? Impossible to say. "As in the Harrowing Chamber," he said. "I thought—never mind what I thought."

He nodded, but could not reply. _We don't even have a body to bury._ He put a hand to his forehead, and abruptly he was on his knees. There was a hole inside of him, expanding swiftly. His mage was gone.

It was a sensation beyond mourning, beyond grief. Grief would come. Right now, it was simply the power that had been the other half of his own power snuffed out like a light, an incomprehensible loss. _She is gone._

 _I am so cold._

Zevran's arm was around his shoulders, his body pressed into Cullen's side. They knelt over the fragments of a sword, silent.

A very long way away, Greagoir was muttering. "If you can help—if there's anything you can do—" Cullen glanced up, but the former Knight-Commander was not speaking to him. Or anyone, apparently.

Greagoir was staring into the middle distance. From one fist trailed what appeared to be a faded ribbon with frayed ends. Perhaps it had once been green.

Cullen could make no sense of it, and didn't even try. He was so cold, and the world was so very far away.

* * *

 _Wynne:_

 _If there's anything you can do—_

A scream split the Fade. The newest Unwilling stretched her wings, her lashing tail sending denizens of the Fade scurrying and flying away in disappointment. This place that had briefly been pinned to the mortal world was rapidly emptying out, the structures that had built themselves melting back into soulspires and vague bridges.

Wynne had been called here by a prayer, though she had no idea if there _was_ anything she could do.

Moros arrived, trailing darkness like an inkstained cloak behind her. "My pet," she crooned as she came to a stop and surveyed the creature who had so recently been a Warden-mage. "I knew you would see reason eventually."

"Cruel, Moros," Wynne called. "You were the one who called in those debts. I thought you wanted to use her hands in the mortal world."

Moros turned towards Wynne and shrugged one shoulder. "Plans change. Besides, her daughter is still in the mortal world. So _delicious_ , the potential of that one. A fitting vessel for my own daughter, when we find her." She turned her attention back to the Unwilling. "And you are a fine thing, are you not? Such power, unchained from the limitations of a mortal body. We will have _such_ times together."

The dragon spat flame at Moros. It engulfed her for just a moment, then Moros emerged, entirely unsinged. "Feisty," she said. "Ah, all of the fight went out of my other pets long ago. It will be good to have a bit of a tussle on my hands." She sniffed. "I believe I will leave you alone for a bit and let your temper cool." She nodded to Wynne and strode away, vanishing as she passed one of the soulspires.

The Unwilling who had once been a student of Wynne's crouched down, wings drawn in, tail lashing. She reminded Wynne of nothing more than a cat after a bath. A cloud of something that had once been the souls of those mages who had failed their Harrowings crept into view. It appeared they were still haunting Moros; looking at them, Wynne wondered if they were the reason Despair had decided to depart. The cloud wrapped itself around a soulspire. Wynne had the impression it was looking at the dragon.

There was an idea tickling the back of Wynne's mind. The Unwilling was freshly arrived, and unlike its brethren who had likely long ago lost all hope of escape, it might cooperate if given reason. Aside from any affection she had for Kathil and sympathy for those she had left behind in the mortal world, there was the plain fact that the Unwilling were one of the reasons that Moros was such a very active power in the Fade. Once, her daughter Elpis had reined her in, but once Elpis had gone Moros had turned to the Unwilling, who were no match for her in power or will.

Giving Moros another pet to play with boded nothing but ill for the rest of the Fade.

Wynne made her decision, and began to call the other parts of herself to her.

 _We are small but many,_ she had told Greagoir, and it was something like the truth. Faith was that small candle in the darkness, a spark against the everlasting night. But it was also true that Faith, like Elpis and Moros, had once been one entity. She had divided herself into many pieces and hidden herself away rather than struggle with the other giants of the Fade. Moros remembered, and Moros _resented_. She always hated it when an opponent got away.

They arrived, one by one. They appeared as humans, elves, dwarves, qunari; male and female, all skin colors and nationalities. Some were shaped like Mabari, others like halla. All of the thinking peoples of Thedas were represented.

As they met, they touched hands to faces and melted into each other. A halla breathed on Wynne's cheek and she felt herself joined by it as it vanished. As they joined, they exchanged news, tales of journeys, memories. _Ah,_ Faith found herself thinking. _Now I see._

When the last of them arrived, Faith took Wynne's form. Kathil had known this mage. She had trusted her. Perhaps she would do so once more. It was strange to be together again; she was vast in power, rich in memory. She must do this quickly, before the ripples she created in the Fade reached Moros.

Faith did not know how one last contest between herself and Despair would end, and she was not eager to try even her new might against her old enemy.

She walked towards where the cloud of souls still clung to the soulspire. It was wispy and translucent, nearly formless. Vague shapes appeared and disappeared at its surface. The Harrowed were not dying; they had done that already. But they _were_ vanishing, worn away by the waters of the Fade. They would never reach the Black City, never go where mortal souls usually ended up.

The Unwilling watched her, unblinking, and did not move.

"Children," she said, for children they had been when they had been forced into the Fade and a contest that was badly stacked against them. "I have a great favor to ask of you."

The cloud detached itself from the soulspire and flowed towards her. It came to a halt near her, and gave the impression that it was listening carefully.

Faith explained what she wished of them, and the consequences of it. She told them what was at stake, and what they might be preventing by doing as she asked. And she explained what she would give them in return. The cloud drew in on itself for a few moments, thinking.

Then it flowed towards her, crossing the gap between them. She put her hands out, and the Harrowed came into her grasp.

 _Myra. Richard. Eva. Lisel. Gertrude. Helene. Piotr. Jeramh. Dewydd. Ffraid. Euan. Cathal. Rhian._ The names came in a swift tumble from the Harrowed. So many of them, and all they remembered about who they had been were their names. There were hundreds of them.

Faith committed each name to memory. Here in the Fade, their names would endure as they had not in the mortal world. For a while, they would live in the memory of each fragment of herself. It was all she could offer them, and that they had been eager to accept meant that they knew very well what was happening to them—knew, and were afraid.

"Good children," she said, and the Harrowed arched against her hands. They gave off only a faint impression of warmth. "Now. Let us see what we can do."

She walked towards the image of the dragon, the Harrowed following. She stopped a little way off, and considered the Unwilling. "Will you cooperate?" she asked.

The dragon scratched fitfully at the stone beneath her claws. There was no old road here for her. No place for her to claim. She lashed her tail, once; she was _misplaced_. She flared her nostrils, frustrated.

"You are, and the human within you still has a chance to live, if we work quickly." She extended a hand, slowly. "You are no friend of Moros, are you."

The Unwilling lifted her head and pinned back her wings in response. _No._

"I didn't think so. Help me thwart her, because she's the one who pushed you to land in this mess." The foolish choices had been Kathil's, but Moros had _cheated_. Moros always cheated. Faith remembered that, now. "Now, here is what you must do—"

Soon enough, everything was set. Faith had no idea how long had passed in the mortal world, only that the spark of awareness within the dragon that was what remained of Kathil was dimming. There was only one thing left to do. She needed an anchor, a trace, to make sure she had the right place.

The answer came to her swiftly. _Of course. Of course, foolish little Wynne. Your Templar keeps faith with you, still._ A ribbon that had been a thoughtless gift, received as a knight might a favor from a lady. Worried and fretted over for decades. _Of course._

Thought was action, and she reached for her ribbon. _There._ The Harrowed flowed to the point that she indicated, and made of themselves a blade, yearning for the mortal world they had once belonged to. The cloud contracted down to a point and began to flare as the souls within began to spend themselves recklessly. One by one, hundreds of souls gave themselves up to nothingness as everything left in them was spent against the Veil.

One mortal soul would not have been able to do it.

Hundreds did.

The Veil was open for a moment, a split second, and Faith gathered herself and _pushed_.

It was close, so close that at first she did not know if she was going to be able to do it. The dragon screamed as she shoved with her hands deep within its image at the frozen human form between.

It vanished. The Veil sealed itself.

Faith shattered once more and flowed away. A thousand thousand minds now remembered the names of the Harrowed, and the life of a human enchanter named Wynne. How she had lived, who she had loved, what she had done, and how she had died.

 _Remember me._

The fragment of Faith that was Wynne coalesced, exhausted. She could do no more. It was up to the mortals, now.

She turned her gaze towards home, and went.

* * *

 _Jowan:_

A fortnight had passed since Kathil had gone into the Fade.

There was still a shocked silence in the Vigil. The Wardens, even those who had not particularly liked the commander, were still subdued and quiet. Nathaniel had taken over leadership, as Kathil had told him to. Anora and her people were still in the keep, and no one seemed to be able to get them to leave. What they were waiting for was anyone's guess.

Eamon had departed for Denerim, and good riddance. He was just going to regroup for another attempt to pry Anora out of the Vigil, but at least he was out of their hair for the moment. The rest of the nobility who had arrived for the celebration seemed to be content to wait. The Wardens had not told them that Kathil was dead. Not yet.

Zevran and Cullen were rarely seen. Cerys was well-supplied with goat milk from the keep's nanny herd—thank goodness this was late spring, not late fall—and her fathers kept her well out of public view. Lorn, when he was not with Cerys, haunted the place where Kathil had disappeared, pacing and whining in front of the gates that they were swiftly rebuilding.

Jowan, for his part, made himself useful outdoors and tried not to call attention to himself.

He was helping re-thatch a roof, laying down bundles of straw as they were passed up to him. Siani, who was manning the ladder, handed him a bundle and said, "Time to break for a bit, I think. We've barley water if you want some."

"Obliged," he said. Siani averted her eyes and climbed down the ladder. Jowan put the latest bundle in place and tamped it down, making sure of the fit. Then he clambered to the edge of the roof and looked over, preparing to climb down.

 _Or maybe I'll wait for a bit._

Greagoir was passing by the house Jowan was working on, evidently on his way to the gates. He had a rolled scroll in one hand, so he was probably going towards the messenger post. The afternoon sun was bright and warm. It would be no hardship to wait until he had passed back by this way and was gone.

As he watched Greagoir, a strange sensation twisted his stomach. That was odd. It almost felt as if something was wrong with the Veil.

The former Knight-Commander stopped in his tracks.

Dizziness washed over Jowan, and he shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. What was—

— _that?_

A bright spark appeared by the Templar's left hand, and he recoiled. A moment later, something human-sized appeared and tumbled to the ground. Jowan stared, not sure he believed what he was seeing.

It was Kathil, curled in the fetal position, her skin quickly riming with frost.

Jowan climbed down the ladder, jumped down the last four rungs, and ran towards her. The outer ward was suddenly ablaze with murmurs and shouts as everyone turned to look. Greagoir was there when Jowan reached Kathil and dropped to his knees beside her. "Is she—" the Templar began.

Jowan shook his head and laid his hands on her body. _Concentrate, concentrate—there!_ "She's alive. Sort of. I have to call her back." He glanced up at Greagoir. "If you want her among the living, don't kill me until after I'm done."

Then he sat back on his heels, and took a moment to think. The spark of Kathil's life was guttering and fading, and she was frozen clear through. He had to bring her back, remind her body how to be alive again. She had been in the cold of the Fade for two weeks. This was not going to be simple, or easy.

 _It will kill me if I get it wrong. It might kill me even if I get it right._

He found that he didn't care.

Jowan pulled his little knife from his belt and slashed deeply into his forearm. He heard but ignored Greagoir's shocked hiss of breath. "Get Cullen and Zevran," he said, not taking his eyes off Kathil. "And as many healing poultices and blankets as you can get your hands on."

Then he held his arm out so his blood fell on Kathil's shoulder and opened himself to the power. _Be like me,_ he told her frozen form. _Be warm. Be alive. Breathe, and move._

The depths of her cold encompassed him, and he began to work.

* * *

 _Kathil:_

She was wading in Lake Calenhad, laughing.

Jowan splashed up beside her. "Look at it, Jowan. It's not tame at _all_." She kicked water at him with her bare foot. The cold of the lakewater was sending knives of ice up into her legs, but she didn't mind at all. It was worth it for this moment with the smell of snow on the air and the whole world stretched out in front of them.

But Jowan was frowning as his dark hair was whipped by the wind. "I think there's a storm coming," he said, and pointed. Black clouds were roiling towards them, and pellets of ice stung Kathil's face.

She stopped laughing, ebullience draining away. "Something's wrong. Something's gone wrong."

He took her cold hands in his as the wind shoved them, as the waves of the lake reached their knees. Their robes were sodden with water now, and wrapped around their legs. "Hold on to me," Jowan said. He glanced over his shoulder. "Hold on to me, Kathil, and in Andraste's name _don't let go_. No matter what."

She nodded, frightened now. Jowan pulled her into his arms, and she fisted her hands in the back of his robes.

 _Don't let go._

The waters were dark and strange things moved in their depths. It wasn't Lake Calenhad at all. _Where are we?_ Jowan was holding onto her as if he thought she might run away. _I'm so cold._

The wind shrieked a higher note. The cold was somehow coming from _inside_ of her. It was making Jowan cold, too. The cold coming from her was _eating_ him, eating his warmth. "It'll kill you," she said, and tried to pull away.

He wouldn't let her go. "No matter what," Jowan said. "You promised. No matter _what_."

Her tears were freezing on her cheeks, and she was too cold even to sob. One moment he was still warm against her. The next, his warmth was gone, submerged beneath the fury of the cold inside of her. His body was a block of ice.

"Jowan," she whispered. "Jowan, I dreamed I was a dragon."

Then they were falling, and the cold water claimed them both.

* * *

.

Time passed; how much she did not know.

.

* * *

The sky was blue.

Kathil stared at it mutely for what seemed like an eternity before she began to notice other things, like the weight pressing on her chest and stomach, the sounds all around her that she could make no sense of. Faces came into her view. She blinked up at them, waiting for them to resolve into some sort of sense.

Zevran. Cullen.

 _Oh._

She tried to speak, say something like, _I think I might be alive_ , but she could make no sound. The weight on her chest was cold. Someone—Cullen—bent down to pull it off of her.

It was Jowan, his skin pale as death.

 _I dreamed I was a dragon._

 _Don't let go. No matter what._

"Here," she croaked, raising one hand and making a grasping motion. "Give him here."

"He is dead, _mi alma,_ " Zevran said. "I am sorry."

She looked up at Zevran and contorted her face, grimacing. "Don't argue. Just _give him here._ "

Cullen and Zevran exchanged a look, and then Cullen laid Jowan's body down next to Kathil. With a great effort, she managed to get one hand onto his chest. He was not breathing.

 _Sod you, bastard. You are not dying on me. Not like this._

The connection between them was still alive. He had used the same sort of healing on her as he had used on Leliana's knee—and this time, instead of just hurting him, it had just about killed him. _Come here, Jowan. Come back._

She pulled.

She had so little strength, and this was not her magic. But slowly, so slowly, he returned. His heart began to beat, and he took a shuddering breath. She nearly fell unconscious again, but managed to stay awake. He breathed in twice more, gasping, and opened his eyes.

Their faces were close to one another, and he blinked. "Bastard," she said. "Don't get off that easy."

He coughed. "Ungrateful," he said, his voice rough.

Then the both of them were being pulled to a sitting position, wrapped in blankets, bodily picked up and carried into Vigil's Keep. Kathil fell asleep briefly, her head on Cullen's shoulder. When she woke, they were in the dining room of the Warden wing, on a chaise in front of a roaring fire. She was sandwiched between Zevran and Cullen, and the two of them were holding onto her as if they were never going to let her go. Lorn was pressed against her legs.

Zevran was holding a cup to her lips. "Drink," he said, and she obeyed. It was a weak, salty broth, easily the best thing she had _ever_ tasted. When she had drained the cup to the dregs, Zev made the cup disappear.

"Cerys?" she asked. "Is she…"

"Fine and healthy," Cullen said. "Currently being looked after by Greagoir. Do you want her?"

She nodded, and let the expression on her face do her speaking for her. Cullen spoke to someone Kathil couldn't see briefly. Kathil rested her head on Zevran's shoulder.

She felt his lips on her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "Little bird," he said, keeping his voice low. "That is the _very_ last time I watch you walk away to nearly certain doom. Next time, you will take me with you."

"I know," Kathil said. She reached for his hand and intertwined his fingers between his. That and the silence was all she needed, for the moment. There would be discussions, later. She was content to leave them until then.

A little while later Greagoir appeared, carrying Cerys. Cerys was awake, and when she saw Kathil she let out a loud squeal and reached out her hands towards her.

"You're bigger than the last time I saw you," she said to her daughter after Greagoir set her on Kathil's lap. "How long was I…"

"A fortnight." Zevran said. "We all thought…well. I am glad we were wrong." Greagoir looked at her and stepped back, questions he was not asking showing plainly on her face. She closed her eyes and put her head against Zevran's chest. Cerys was gnawing on her little finger. She and Greagoir were going to have to talk, but not today.

 _Soon, though._

There was one piece of business that could not wait, though. She lifted her head. "Jowan?"

"Over here." Cullen shifted so she could see him. Jowan was sitting nearby, having the cut on his forearm stitched by a scowling Rylock. _Would happen to be the Warden with the chirurgeon skills is the woman who hates him. Bless Ilse for teaching her, though._ "This is my reward for saving your life? Torture by former Templar?"

"I keep telling you, stay _still_ ," Rylock snapped. "This isn't like sewing cloth, you know." Jowan pulled a face, but stilled.

Kathil almost laughed. "Just wanted to tell you. As soon as you're fit to travel, I'm reassigning you to Soldier's Peak. Take a few people—Keili, if she wants to go—and a pair of Mabari. I know you were looking at Avernus's research. I want you to see what you can make of it."

He was very still, looking at her. "Are you certain?"

"I am." She looked down at Cerys, at her wispy blond hair that was growing out curly now. "Don't mistake me, it's not a milk posting. It's remote and wild, and eventually there will be more mages sent to staff the Tower there. And it comes with countless Drydens." Kathil grimaced slightly. "But we will need every advantage we can get, in the days to come."

Jowan looked at her for another long moment, as if he were trying to decide if he believed her. "If you trust me…"

"I trust you," she said softly. "Just be careful."

In his smile there was something of the young Jowan who had shown her the way out of the Tower, all those years ago. They were standing on the Tower's rocky shore once more, both of them young and untried. Broken hearts and broken lives were still in the future, and the world was open before them, full of possibility.

She relaxed against Zevran and fell asleep once more between her two loves, her daughter on her lap, her hound at her feet. She was safe, and finally warm, and with her family.

If there was trouble in the world, it would wait for her to wake.


	15. Drunkard's Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This chapter contains minor spoilers for Dragon Age 2. Proceed at your own risk.

_In the time before sorrow we were joyful,_ _  
_ _our songs were sweet and welcoming._ _  
_ _We knew not hunger, for we feasted in gardens._ _  
_ _We knew not grief, for we were ever-living._ _  
_ _We knew love, only love, only love!_

 _Oh, my daughter._ _  
_ _Oh, my thousand-petaled daughter._ _  
_ _Oh, my mountain-born daughter._

 _My every breath sings of your absence._

— _from the Canticle of Demons, stanza two: of the Voice_

* * *

 _Kathil:_

They held the celebration after all.

She did not dance at it; she was still weak from her sojourn into the Fade and the rigors of her return. Nathaniel was handling the day-to-day business of the Wardens for her, and she slept, ate, and cared for Cerys. She sat on the dais in the great hall of the Vigil and greeted what seemed like an endless stream of well-wishers that night, Zevran and Cullen beside her, the warhounds flanking them.

What had truly passed the day she had confronted the Grand Cleric was a secret that the Grey Wardens held close. Even those who had been there had not seen the whole thing. If any non-Wardens wondered where Kathil had vanished to for a fortnight, or why she was pale and still even now, they did not ask.

She did get to see Nathaniel dance with Sigrun, both of them lit up like Wintersend candles. Jowan managed a turn around the floor—with Delilah, of all people! (And a scowl appeared on Gwen Rylock's face when she saw Jowan dancing with Delilah. Hard to say why, of course, but Kathil had her guesses.) Oghren wrestled a suit of armor and lost, and Felsi dragged him away from the hall with the light in her eyes belying her grumbling. Alfstanna sat near Kathil for a time, and the two of them talked about inconsequentials, exactly as if they were family.

Teagan and Alistair were there, without their respective wives. Kaitlyn hadn't wanted to travel, and Rima had unspecified business in Denerim that needed an eye kept on it. As she sat on the dais, watching the dancers, she saw Teagan doing a turn around the floor with Alfstanna. Alistair, of course, was in high demand—all of the women and no few of the men wanted a chance to dance with the King. Currently, he was dancing with Leliana, who she could tell was trying to coach him. Bless Leliana. She never changed.

Emris, Alistair's guard captain, had arrived with him, his Mabari Yvrenne following. "The litter that she had by Lorn worked out very well," he'd told her when they'd arrived. "I'd like to repeat the breeding. Yvrenne's coming into heat right now."

She'd laughed, and assented, much to Lorn's delight. Fiann's first heat was just past, and he had been _very_ confused by the fact that he was not allowed to breed her. It would be another two years before Fiann would have her first litter, to allow her time to come into her full growth. But between Yvrenne and Kerrither's Dracene, Lorn was already doing his part towards repopulating Ferelden with the finest warhounds in Thedas.

The music was provided by various guardsmen and farmers and merchants who knew various instruments, and was mostly simply country dances. The current song bumped to a close rather than ended—they had rehearsed, of course, but there was evidently some disagreement about how "The Green Man's Daughter" ended—but the laughter that came from the dance floor was good natured as partners bowed to each other and split off.

A motion at one of the side doors of the hall caught Kathil's eye, and she sat up. A woman clad in cream homespun stood framed in the doorway. Celia's hair was caught up in a simple knot, and her face was bare, innocent of cosmetics. She simply was what she was—an attractive woman, aging gracefully. She was the subject of a number of curious glances, but no one who did not reside in the keep recognized her, it seemed.

No one, but Teagan.

Teagan looked dumbstruck, staring with his mouth half open. The two of them stared at one another for a long moment, and that moment said much. Kathil thought she understood, now, why Celia had stayed in the Vigil. And she understood, too, why her son Sionn looked so familiar.

Celia inclined her head, and Teagan crossed the room towards her. When he reached her, she took his hands in hers and spoke to him. He nodded, and she led him into the darkness beyond the hall.

"Who was that?" Alistair asked. He was standing near the dais, watching Teagan go. "She looks…familiar."

"Celia Mac Tir," Kathil said. "And yes, before you ask, Anora is still here as well. Don't worry, I think I'll be able to get them out of the country, now that she's had a chance to see Teagan." She glanced up at her old friend, the King. "We should talk."

He offered his arm to her; she rose and took it. People would talk, seeing the Commander leave the great hall on the King's arm, but she didn't particularly care. They went out to the battlements that overlooked the steep mountainside, the dark land dropping away beneath the walls. It was a moonless night, but the sky was clear and the stars were low and bright. Kathil went to lean on the battlement wall, looking down at the treetops below only barely visible in the starlight. Alistair did the same.

There was silence between them for a moment, a breeze sighing across the keep's roof, the distant jangle of music in the hall. "We're leaving," she said into that silence. "Nathaniel will be Commander after me. He'll be far better at it than I ever was."

Alistair's intake of breath with swift and shocked. "Why? You sent the Chantry packing—"

Kathil shook her head. "They'll try again, and again. The Grey Wardens will never have any peace while I'm in the Vigil. My presence distracts from our mission here." She glanced over at him, and smiled faintly. "Besides, I'm no good at staying in one place. You should know that by now."

"True enough." He shook his head. "So where are you going?"

"North. I….had a letter from the Orlesian Wardens. Laurens and Velanna have disappeared. They think it's something to do with the Architect."

Alistair shuddered. "Just knowing that _thing_ is out there somewhere—"

"I know." Kathil looked down the hillside again. "So we'll go see if we can find him. Maybe try to look up Morrigan again. I am reasonably certain I know how to find her, now." Her dreams, since she returned from the Fade, had been filled with dragon wings and twisted mirrors. "The Circle of the Grey will likely eventually end up at Soldier's Peak, rather than Vigil's Keep. That should appease the Chantry a little. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. Keili and Kinnon will stay here, it turns out, but Jowan will go."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "I thought he and Keili were together."

"So did I." She chuckled. "Turns out that Keili has a thing for strong, handsome women who are deadly with a bow. She pretty much moved in with Maverlies a few weeks ago. I don't doubt that she and Jowan slept together, but let's just say that I'm not the only mage in the Wardens who has a weakness where Templars are concerned."

And hadn't _that_ been a surprise, when Kathil had figured it out. Rylock had simply told her that she was going to Soldier's Peak with Jowan; there had been no room and no reason for Kathil to object. The two of them were rarely far from each other, these days. She didn't know if the two of them had figured out what was going on between them, but she trusted that they would eventually work it out.

"There's something else," she said. She slipped her hand into the pocket that was hidden in the full skirt of the dress she was wearing, and pulled out a small object. "I keep meaning to give this to you."

He held the pendant up to what little light there was. "A Warden's Oath? And well-worn, to boot. Who's was it?"

"Look at the inscription," she said, quietly.

"It's in…is that Orlesian?" I can barely read it."

"Duncan was conscripted in Val Royeaux," she said. "It belonged to him. It was passed on, eventually, to his daughter. She gave it to me, said that it should be with the Wardens."

He was staring at her. "Duncan had a family? I never—he never _said_ anything!"

"He wouldn't have. His lover was a Circle mage. He helped her escape to Tevinter when she got pregnant." She took a long breath. "Leliana introduced you to Amity, earlier. She's Duncan's daughter. You should talk to her. I think she's curious about her father. She never met him, and all she had of him was stories her mother told, and his Oath."

He looked down at the pendant in his hand, the little vial of black blood. "I will," he said. He closed his hand around it, and looked up at the stars. "There's something else I should tell you. Rima didn't come with me because she's pregnant again. The healers told her not to travel. It's early yet—too early to make a general announcement—but I thought you would want to know."

No matter how old she got or how long she and Alistair were good friends instead of what they had once been to each other, that little twist in her gut would never _quite_ go away. She ignored it, and smiled at him. "I'm glad to hear it," she said. "You're a good father, Alistair. If there is any justice in this world, you will have a whole passel of fat, happy babies."

"And then there's a headache over succession," he said, and grinned at her. "Though by the time that's a problem, I'll be a little too dead to care, eh?" He pointed his chin back at the keep. "You know if we don't get back soon, people will talk."

Kathil snorted. "The important people know the truth. Everyone else can keep their sodding opinions to themselves." She leaned forward and propped her elbows on the wall. "It's a pretty night."

He made a low sound in acknowledgement. "That it is."

Neither of them moved to head back inside. For a long time they stood there in silence, looking up at the glittering night sky. _I will miss this place._

She didn't speak, didn't move, just let the moment be what it was. The sky was a sea of stars, and she fancied that even from here, she could hear the restless waves of the Waking Sea washing Ferelden's rough and rocky shore.

* * *

 _Cullen:_

If he didn't do this now, he would never have the chance.

He steeled his resolve and walked out onto the battlements. He'd spent an hour asking after Greagoir, and someone finally said that they'd seen him heading up to the battlements with his sword, a whetstone, and oiled wool. The former Knight-Commander was sitting on a wooden chair, tending the edge of his blade and watching swallows play in the updrafts that the walls of the Vigil forced.

There were other chairs around; this was a popular spot for guards and kitchen staff to take their breaks, and on fine evenings some people even carried tables out to eat and watch the sunset. For the moment, though, he and Greagoir were alone. He pulled a chair over next to him, and sat down.

Greagoir didn't even pause in his sharpening. "It's good to know that I at least can still do this," Greagoir said. He raised the blade and looked down the length of it critically. "You wanted something, Cullen?"

Cullen's mouth was dry. "What do you think you'll do, after we leave? Will you stay on?"

"I think not." Greagoir gave the sword another pass with the whetstone. "I'll return to the Blackmarsh. I'd like to learn to fish. Thirty years in a tower surrounded by water, and I never had time to learn. There are a few lakes, near Blackmarsh Village. And I think that scholar with all the dragon bones needs to have an eye kept on him."

And Wynne was there. "I understand," he said, quietly. "Was it you who sent me money, after I joined the Wardens?"

It had come in a small package with just his name written on the outside. Wrapped in a sturdy pair of socks had been a small fortune—five sovereigns, more money than he had ever seen at once. It had arrived just before Montclair had told him that they were leaving for Seahold, to apprehend a dangerous maleficar who had turned out to be Kathil. It was long since spent, of course, but he had always wondered who'd sent it.

"And the socks," Greagoir said. The edge of his blade protested against the whetstone. "Don't forget those. I thought you might need the money, and it wasn't doing me any good sitting in my trunk. Did you use it well?"

"Yes. I think I did." He'd stood in front of the dwarf's stall for ages and ages, trying to make up his mind. In the end, he had picked the set of pen nibs that had been the plainest but sturdiest, with the thought that they would last Kathil a good long time. They had cost two sovereigns, but he still saw her using them when she was writing letters and her endless Canticles. The price had been more than worth it. "The socks are good, too. I still have those."

Greagoir chuckled. "Thank Wynne. At least, I am nearly certain that she was the one who made me all the pairs I kept finding in my office. I still have a number of pairs left, and it's been years since any new ones appeared." He picked up the wool and began to methodically oil his blade, laying down the oil in a thin layer. In the sunlight, the oil on the metal reflected subtle colors against the steel.

Cullen bit the inside of his cheek. "I…just wanted to say, thank you. Wynne told me what you did for me—for her. When I was born. And for the money, and the socks, and for—"

 _Everything, really._

There was a faint smile on Greagoir's face. "I told myself that it was simply that I couldn't see sending any child, even a mage's child, to certain death in the Aeonar. Children came and went in the Tower, after all. I was good at only seeing the ones who were going to be trouble. In retrospect, I told myself many things. Some of which turned out not to be true." He inspected his blade with a critical eye. "I knew who you were the moment you walked into the Tower as a gangly Templar recruit. I've never been anything but proud of you, Cullen. Then, and now."

It felt as if the words hit Cullen square in the middle of the chest, with a force like a mule's kick. "Even when I drew on you?" he asked, feeling a little strangled.

Greagoir sheathed his sword. "Even then," he said. "Angry, of course, but also proud. You stood up for something you believed in—even if what you believed in was a mage that none of us had any business trusting." He glanced at Cullen with an unreadable expression. "You've done well, Warden Cullen."

His breath was coming back to him. "Thank you." They sat in silence for the moment, the sunshine coming down on them like a benediction. "So. Fishing, eh?"

"Indeed. I hear it's an excuse to sit in a boat and complain about how the fish aren't biting." One side of Greagoir's mouth quirked upward briefly. "It sounds relaxing."

He tried to imagine Greagoir sitting in a boat, alone on a still lake, with his line in the water. Vigilant, still. Perhaps with the shadowy form of Wynne next to him. He could see it, he thought.

They were set to leave in three days. It was long enough to sit in the sunshine with his father and be grateful for what had been, rather than resentful of what had not.

* * *

 _Leliana:_

The leave-takings were informal, and swiftly done. First it was Jowan, Rylock, and a newly-made Warden named Calsine, leaving for Soldier's Peak. Calsine was one of the apostates who had chosen to shelter with the Wardens, and had taken the Joining rather than go to Orzammar. Then Greagoir left for the Blackmarsh, and Anora finally took her people to Amaranthine, where they would take ship to the Free Marches.

Then it was Kathil's turn to leave.

She'd turned over command to Nathaniel a few weeks ago and had spent the intervening time getting ready to leave. Leliana understood, she thought. The power that Kathil had wielded against those who would have besieged the Vigil was too close, and too tempting to use again. She had _felt_ it, felt the brush of something that should have been dead many years ago brush past her mind.

She did not volunteer to go with Kathil and Zevran and Cullen. She might have, if Amity had not been there. But with Amity and Murena by her side, some restlessness in her had finally subsided. It had been there so long that she had grown used to it.

Perhaps they would go to Denerim. The Chantry had been shaken to its roots by Kathil's defiance of them, and it seemed as though every day brought news of village chantries quietly withdrawing from the greater organization, Templars choosing to leave the Order rather than comply with orders they disagreed with. There was a lyrium smuggling network that seemed to have sprung out of the ground like a mushroom circle, from nowhere and everywhere at once. It supplied the renegade Templars and chantries. Leliana suspected that Dagna had something to do with it.

There was opportunity in chaos. Leliana thought that perhaps she might be able to do some good as the Chantry struggled with the need to either change or die.

Kathil was saying goodbye to each of them in turn, to the Wardens, to Varel, to Seneschal Garavel and Mistress Woolsey. She hugged Keili and Kinnon hard, shook hands with Maverlies. She called Oghren a rude name and then embraced him, laughing as he grabbed her around the waist and picked her up off the ground. Sigrun poked her in the side with a finger, and Kathil punched her shoulder playfully.

Then she came to Leliana.

Kathil was wearing her armor, a sword on her belt. It was not Spellweaver but merely an ordinary longsword—if anything that came from Wade's forge could be called _ordinary_. Her face was still drawn and tired, the scar twisting the corner of her eye and mouth, but there was something bright in her black eyes. "I thought I was going to be here longer," she said. "I was going to run a renegade chantry, you know, and you were going to be its Revered Mother." Her smile was wide and lopsided. "I wanted to see how everyone would react to the idea that the Maker loves us and wants us to be happy."

"With some consternation, I suspect," Leliana said, and laughed. She pulled her friend into an embrace. "Be well, dearest. I would tell you to keep safe, but I know you better than that."

Kathil kissed Leliana's cheek. "You, too. I like her, you know. Amity." She glanced over to where Amity and Murena were perusing the bookshelves at one side of the great hall. "I'm glad it's her."

Unexpectedly, tears prickled Leliana's eyes. "That means more than you know," she said, quietly. "We'll see each other again, Kathil. I promise."

She wrinkled her nose. "Even if you have to chase me down clear across Thedas, I think." She tightened her arms around Leliana and then let go. "Be well, Lei. And wish me luck."

"Luck," Leliana said, and smiled.

As Kathil turned away, Murena made a beeline for Leliana, a book in her hands. Amity followed, a bemused look on her face. "I want you to know that I had _nothing_ to do with her choice of reading material," she told Leliana. "Nothing _whatsoever._ "

"What? Oh, Murena, love." She looked at the book her ward was holding and felt a very familiar sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. "Sweetling, _The Rose of Orlais_ is one of those naughty grownup books we spoke of."

"I know!" The girl hugged the volume to her chest. "I want to read it."

"At least she will be practicing her reading?" Amity said to Leliana. "I couldn't dissuade her."

She laughed, and shook her head. "We will speak of it later, yes? For the moment, I have a pair of men I need to say goodbye to." She hugged Cullen and then Zevran, wishing them both well. Looking at Cullen, she thought she could see only traces of the Templar she had met during the Blight, the boy trapped in the cage. He had been the last survivor, the fortress that had refused to fall.

He was going to need that determination, she thought.

Zevran, too, was changed. There were new lines at the corners of his eyes, though the sardonic twist of his mouth was entirely familiar. "Take good care of them," she told him.

"As they take care of me, no?" He swept her a bow. "Goodbye, my bunting dove. I do not doubt we will meet again. The world is in the habit of bringing us together, is it not?"

"It seems so." She smiled at him, then stepped back and let him go. The three of them were shouldering their packs now, and there was laughter and shouting in the hall.

Cullen handed Cerys to Kathil, and she slipped the baby's sling over her head. Then the six of them—three adults, one infant, and two Mabari—walked out of the double doors, heading for the gate.

A small hand slipped into Leliana's. She looked down at Murena, who was regarding her gravely. "You cry, _massime_."

She used the back of her free hand to swipe at her eyes. "It is always sad when a dear friend departs, is it not?"

Then Amity was there, and her arm slipped around Leliana's waist. "It is," she said, her voice pitched low. "Do you wish to watch from the battlements?"

Leliana nodded, and they made their way to the wall walk over the rebuilt gate. They stood and watched as Kathil and her family walked down the rough-cobbled road that led from the Vigil, until they reached the bend in the road and vanished from sight.

 _Be well, my dearest friend. May Andraste bless your path with joy._

Then she took Amity's hand, and Murena's. "Shall we go see if Wade has finished that practice sword for you, Murena?" she asked.

The girl lit up and started walking, tugging on Leliana's hand. She and Amity laughed, and followed.

* * *

 _Warden Amell,_

 _The situation here in Kirkwall is indeed somewhat dire. I have enclosed a report on the situations here that may spill over to affect the rest of Thedas. We have located Anders, as well. He seems to be involved in some sort of mage freedom movement. Erlina is working on finding out more._

 _The Friends of Red Jenny are active here, though mostly behind the scenes. Remy, Sionn, and Erlina have found plenty of work, and we may stay here past the year we initially intended. It rather depends on how the situation with the qunari that I have written more about in my report unfolds. Mother and I have also found employment, of a sort._

 _Your suspicions were correct, I am afraid to say. The Veil is very thin here, and all of the mages we have spoken to have reluctantly told us of having the same dream—of a shadowy being beneath the city, something only partially awake and very dangerous. Even non-mages are occasionally possessed by demons, here. And if ever I thought that the Circle of Magi in Ferelden was cruel, the Circle here is a hundred times worse._

 _I've included details in my report. I hope this finds its way to you in a timely fashion. The Grey Warden who agreed to pass it along to Jader was under the impression that you had not been seen in months._

 _Sionn sends his regards and his thanks once more for Cadoc. He does not care in the least that having a Mabari marks him as Fereldan and a probable refugee. The two of them are inseparable._

 _I hope you are well._

 _Kindest regards,_

 _Anora d'Orise_

* * *

 _Zevran:_

The boat rocked gently, spray blowing over the bow as it nosed its way through the waves and north. Cerys was exploring the deck, and he was keeping a watchful eye on her. She was beginning to learn to walk, which meant that the terror of her being mobile had just multiplied. She had a habit of vanishing from view abruptly, often enough that he thought that perhaps he should think about schooling her in his own skills.

They had passed the winter in Orlais, keeping their heads down, looking for any traces of Laurens and Velanna. Then Kathil had come across a reference that made her think that the two Wardens had gone to Antiva. There was darkspawn activity there that fell into a curious and familiar pattern—organization where there should be none, evidence of intelligence and forethought that the creatures were not supposed to possess without an Archdemon to guide them.

So it was off to Antiva with them; first to Rialto, to pay a visit to Ville, and from there to Seleny. The spring was warm, warmer as they made their way north on a fishing vessel that was outfitted suspiciously like a smuggler's rig.

Cerys pushed herself to her feet from where she had been inspecting a coil of rope. "Come here, _mi tesoro_ ," he called to her. "The men will soon be back here and you will wish to be out from underfoot, no?"

She toddled over to him where he sat in a sheltered place by the rail, only stumbling once or twice when the boat rocked unexpectedly. She was a year and two months old, now, and her shock of curly blonde hair was the same color as his own. At times, she looked as if she might be elf-blooded; other times, he thought she rather resembled Cullen. She climbed into his lap, and wrapped a hand around one of his braids. "Papa," she said, then started muttering in a mixture of Ferelden and Antivan, largely incomprehensible. The muttering got even more incomprehensible when she put the end of his braid into her mouth, mumbling around it.

He removed his hair from his daughter's grasping hands. Footsteps approached; he looked up to see Kathil and Cullen approaching. "Better?" he asked.

Kathil nodded, though she was still markedly pale. "Have I ever mentioned that I hate boats?" She was many things, but a good sailor was not among them. "Only three more days, thank the Maker."

Zevran patted the deck next to him. "Come, sit down. There is a fine breeze blowing, no? It could be far worse."

"It could be storming, for instance," Cullen said. "You didn't eat for most of the week after that time." He sank down next to Zevran. From the other end of the boat, men shouted to each other as the ship's boy clambered up the rigging above their heads. Kathil settled down on Zevran's other side. "Has Cerys been keeping out of trouble?" Cullen asked.

"Other than occasionally attempting to sample the ship, yes," Zevran said.

"Why the tar, is what I want to know," Kathil said. "I assume tar tastes like it smells. I have no idea why she keeps trying to eat it." She looked fondly at Cerys, who had one of Zevran's braids on one hand and waved at her mother with the other.

"I am sure that when she is older she will explain to us why she feels that boats are for eating," Zevran said. He leaned over to kiss her, and then to the other side to kiss Cullen. "For now, I am content."

A rare miracle indeed, that it was true, and they were free for once to live their lives as they saw fit.

It would not last, of course. Nothing ever did.

But he could hope that it would last long enough.

* * *

 _You're my water  
you're my wine  
you're my whiskey from time to time  
you're the hunger on my bones  
all the nights I sleep alone_

 _Sweet intoxication  
when your words wash over me  
whether or not your lips move  
you speak to me…_

 _-Over the Rhine, "Drunkard's Prayer"_


	16. Epilogue: Against Us and Within Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains _**major spoilers**_ _for the ending of DA2._ _ **Proceed at your own risk.**_

_9:40 Dragon_

 _Etain Hawke:_

He wasn't usually in the habit of bedding men he'd just met.

Still, it had been a long few years, and Anders was being... _Let's just say he's being Anders, and leave it at that._ The quickly deteriorating situation inside of Kirkwall, his lover's continued withdrawal from his own life (not to mention Etain's), the sense that this long, lonely road was not going to end anywhere he was going to be happy with—all of it was a grinding burden. No amount of drinking in the Hanged Man could help lighten it.

Everything he did that wasn't related to politics was an attempt to distract himself from them. Including agreeing to hunt down an assassin for a bunch of shady-looking Antivans. Including deciding that the assassin was telling the truth, and the Antivans had lied about why they had wanted to track down this elf.

He'd always resented being dragged into other people's internecine battles, and he was tired of being lied to.

So here he was, following the elf through scrub and between stone outcroppings, leaving his people behind. (Fenris had just shaken his head; Aveline had give him a dirty look but hadn't said anything, and Merrill had evidently found the idea delightful. Or maybe she'd thought that Etain really was going to just go talk to Zevran. Hard to tell what precisely was going on in Merrill's head, if anything.) His Mabari was at his heels; Etain went exactly nowhere without Dumat these days. It helped remind people that there was a _reason_ he'd never been put forward as a serious candidate for the viscount's position.

Other than the _being an apostate_ thing, that was.

The Mabari reminded people that the Champion of Kirkwall was a Fereldan, despite everything he'd done to and for Kirkwall. Even if his accent had faded as the years had gone by. Even if he had lost almost everything he had originally come to Kirkwall with except a friendship with Aveline, his dog, and his name. The whispers of _dog lord_ and _dirty Fereldan_ followed him still.

"And here we are," the assassin said, as they rounded a corner. "Home, as it were."

Dumat gave a low woof of warning, and Etain froze. That was—

"You know, Zev," the woman who was crouched by the small fire said, "You might have _warned_ him."

"And miss seeing that look on his face?" the assassin said. He broke into a grin. "Not likely, little bird."

The woman rolled her eyes and straightened. There was another man in the small camp, a tall fellow with ginger hair and a look about him that spoke of long hours spent wielding a sword. There a small pack Mabari, at least four, all of whom were on their feet and wagging cautiously. One of them looked older than the rest; he moved stiffly, and his muzzle was nearly white. Dumat, beside Etain, opened his mouth and let his tongue loll. The Mabris approached each other, sniffing.

The woman was small, dressed in clothing both drab and dusty, but she wore a fine sword at her waist as if it were merely another part of her body. Everything about her was sharply carved, and pointed—high cheekbones, an angular jaw, thin fingers. A terrible scar ran down one side of her face, from temple to jaw, touching and twisting the corner of her eye and mouth. Maybe she'd been pretty once, but no longer.

She looked oddly familiar, and he couldn't quite work out why.

She snorted. "Sorry about Zevran," she said in a strong Fereldan accent. "And about luring you here under false pretenses. But we needed to speak with you, and I can't exactly walk into Kirkwall. Best that nobody ever know we were here."

"And you are?" Etain managed at last.

The woman smiled, lopsided. "That's Cullen. The Mabari are—well, we'll introduce you to the pack in a bit. And—" She paused, then sighed. "Lorn? Where are Cerys and Myf?"

The Mabari with the grizzled muzzle gave a sharp bark and bounded away. "Our daughter's name is Cerys," the woman said. "I am Kathil."

Etain frowned. Why was that name familiar? "Odd, that's the same name as—" He stopped. "Kathil _Amell_. Hero of Ferelden."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Hello, cousin."

He goggled briefly, abruptly seeing the resemblance-he saw her colorless hair and black eyes every time he looked in a mirror, and she had the same Amell nose as him and Carver. (Bethany had gotten Father's nose, to her great fortune.)

 _She has Mother's hands._

"There are people looking for you," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "I know. Some of them old friends. But—circumstances are as they are, and there are things that you need to know. Sit down. We have a lot—oh, _Cerys._ "

The Mabari had returned, accompanied by a small child, maybe five years old, followed by a young Mabari. Both of them were covered in mud from head to toe, and the girl wore nothing but a scrap of blanket around her waist. Under the mud, her hair might have been blonde. She brandished a sharp stick with a wide smile.

Zevran laughed. "My little barbarian." He strode over and picked her up, paying no heed to the amount of mud that was transferred to his own clothing. "Come, we will get you cleaned up, yes? And what have you done with your clothes?"

The child bit her lip. "Um..."

Kathil sighed. "You should never have told her about that Alamarri tradition of going into battle naked," she said. "We don't have a lot of time. We'll get Etain caught up while you get Cerys washed off."

There was scant shade in the boulder-ringed camp, but they made use of what there was. Kathil began telling him a tale that he would have found implausible if this hadn't been the woman who had killed the Archdemon, if Etain hadn't spent the last several years in love with a man who was an abomination if one were to define the term strictly. If he hadn't been saved, once, by a woman who called herself Flemeth.

Cullen (who, it turned out was a former Templar, and Etain received the shock of his life when he casually referred to himself as one of Cerys's fathers) chimed in during part of it, and Zevran told his own part of the tale when he brought a freshly-washed Cerys back to them. The girl had curled up in her mother's lap, and was peeking at Etain from behind Kathil's braid. The grizzled Mabari was sitting with his head on Kathil's foot. "And that's about the lot of it," she said. "From what I can tell, the same thing is poised to happen across Thedas. The Orlesian Chantry is a disaster waiting to happen, and the Imperial Chantry is honestly not much better. From the sounds of things, it's worse in Kirkwall than just about anywhere else."

"I know," Etain said grimly. "Trust me, I know. There are days that I just want to chuck the whole thing into the sea and go find something _else_ to do with my life. But Anders…" He scratched the back of his neck. "Anders loves lost causes, and I love him, so in Kirkwall I stay."

The others exchanged a long look. "Anders?" Kathil asked. "As in a mage who's also a Grey Warden? Blond, nice eyes, very, very angry?"

"Yes," he said, taken a little aback. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised you know him—he was from the Fereldan Grey Wardens, and there aren't that many."

Kathil rubbed a thumb along the scar that ran down her cheek. "Be careful with him," she said, quietly. "I knew him in the Circle Tower. Remember that Grey Wardens are capable of doing just about anything to defeat the darkspawn. Sometimes, that…spills over into the rest of our lives. It's a mindset that's hard to shake. If things go very wrong and you have to leave, come find us." She bent her head forward to kiss her daughter's hair. "We should go. Your friends will start to get suspicious. Time to pack up, Cerys."

The girl hopped off her mother's lap, gave Etain one last, shy look, and slipped off to where packs were piled by a boulder. "I have something for you," Kathil said. She strode to her pack and pulled out two books, one thin as a volume of poetry, the other thicker. She brought them to Etain and handed them to him.

"What are they?" he asked.

She paid a finger on the cover of the thicker book. "The closest thing we have to a comprehensive study of lyrium that currently exists. It's written by Dagna, of the Circle in the Stone. And the other is…well. Just read it. Try not to let it get far beyond your reach. It's heresy, more or less, but there are some things inside of it that you might need to know." She ran a sword-calloused hand over her hair. "This war will be fought with steel and magic, but it will be won with words. These are some of the words you're going to want on your side."

After Etain returned to Kirkwall, he found that Anders was down at the clinic late, as usual. He said hello to Bodhan and went up to his room, flinching as usual from the darkened alcove that held the door to Mother's room.

He lit a lamp, and opened the thinner of the two volumes. It was written in an educated hand, with the sort of angularity that they taught the Templars. He'd surely seen enough missives and posters penned by them to recognize it when he saw it.

On the first page, standing alone, were the words, _The Canticle of Demons_.

He read, and began to understand.

* * *

Afterwards—

He was rather surprised that there _was_ an afterwards. Orsino had gone mad (and it had felt _good_ to kill the bastard, after realizing what he had been complicit in) and then there had been _Meredith._

He strongly suspected that most of his nightmares were going to feature Meredith, from now on.

The rest, of course, were going to feature Anders glowing blue-white, smacking his staff against the stone. And a sound like the sky itself tearing in half, as if the Maker himself had screamed with Etain as he realized what Anders had done.

Even now, he felt sick and empty. He had tried to save Kirkwall from itself, walked a careful line for _years_ , and in a single moment the man he loved had undone everything he had worked for. He should have sent Anders away when he'd realized what was lurking under Kirkwall. He hadn't wanted to believe the crumpled pieces of parchment written by an anonymous hand that detailed what the Tevinter magisters had done, what they had unbound.

He'd thought love and friendship could save Anders.

 _I don't think love ever saved anything._

But in the end, he couldn't bear to make a martyr of his lover, to complete what Anders so clearly wanted—expected—him to do. That would have been no justice at all.

He glanced at Anders, who was walking silently beside him. Fenris and Isabela were in front of them, Merrill behind them with Aveline, Donnic, and Varric. Something caught Fenris's eye, and he glanced over his shoulder at the rest of them and jerked his head. "Water. That way."

There was no pursuit. Ser Mathias would forestall anyone who thought to track them, Etain thought, at least for a while. It was safe enough to stop.

The stream was more of a rivulet, but it was deep enough for drinking and for washing the sweat and dust from their faces. The wind was blowing from the south, bringing with it stone dust and smoke from Kirkwall as it smoldered behind them.

Merrill was using her scarf to scrub her face. Fenris washed his hands, over and over again. Varric picked imaginary lint from Bianca's stock. Isabela scuffed her toe in the dirt, twisting her foot, like she did when she was angry but didn't think it worth her time to start a fight. Anders just drank from his cupped hands, then turned away from the rest of them.

It was Aveline who spoke at last. "So. What now, Hawke?"

Etain was kneeling on the sandy bank, letting the water run over his scarred hands. For a moment, he didn't answer.

So many scars. So many foes, over the years. So many times Anders had run his fingers over Etain's wounds, laughed, told him that the object was to keep the enemy _away_ from him. _You do know that the advantage of being a mage is being able to stay off the battlefield proper, right?_ He'd loved Anders in those moments, no less than he'd loved him when they were fighting back to back, or when he would grasp Etain's wrist in one strong hand and pull him towards bed. No less than he'd loved him when Justice would put in an appearance, sometimes just as a glimmer in Anders' pupils.

He'd loved Justice, too. That was the hard thing, the _stupid_ thing, that he'd loved what could never, _ever_ love him in return. Like loving a mountain, or a bolt of lightning; like loving a lamppost or a painting. Like loving a city, and watching it destroy itself.

And now it was done. Over. Perhaps one day he'd feel that again, for one or the other of them. Until then, he was a guardian, a custodian. He could no more let Anders and Justice into the world by themselves than he would let a child wander off unsupervised, than he would tell his dog to go find his own way home.

Everyone was looking at him.

He lifted his hands from the water. Sunlight caught the drops that fell from his hands, turned them into brief diamonds. "I'm going to go look for my cousin. You are all welcome to join me, or not."

"Your cousin?" Merrill asked. She looked up from where she was crouched, reminding Etain of nothing so much as a mouse pausing in the middle of a good face-washing, listening for danger. "The Warden? Oh...I remember you telling me this. She killed the Archdemon."

"The same." He stood, shook the water off his hands. "I met her once. She told me to come find her if things went pear-shaped, and, well..." He gestured at the smoke staining the horizon. "This qualifies."

Varric was eyeing him with avid interest. "You never mentioned you met the Hero of Ferelden. What's she like?"

Etain shook his head. "Honestly? Short. And I would really not like to get between her and something she wants. I'll find her eventually, if you want to tag along."

Anders stirred and lifted his head. His eyes were dull. "I ran away from her, you know. You're going to drag me along, aren't you." It was not a question.

"I am." And that _was_ a question— _I won't if you really object—_ but Anders just dropped his head, stared at his feet. _Thought so._

"For now—" his voice was too loud, it always was when he was trying to pretend things were somehow normal— "I want to put some distance between us and Kirkwall."

Distance. Distance was a good idea. Behind them was a courtyard where Carver lay dead, a graveyard where his mother lay buried. Farther behind, a Blight-wracked clearing where Bethany had died.

Beneath Kirkwall, there was something half-awake and unbound, and everyone above going mad within its regard.

In his pack, there was a thin volume written in a Templar's copperplate hand, describing how Despair had lost her daughter Hope, and to what lengths she was willing to go to regain her.

 _This war will be fought with steel and magic, but it will won with words._

They turned north, and walked the rutted road into another story altogether.

* * *

 _No poison cup,  
no penance. Merely a notion that the tape-recorder  
should have caught some ghost of us: that tape-recorder  
not merely played but should have listened to us,  
and could instruct those after us:  
this we were, this is how we tried to love,  
and these are the forces we had ranged against us,  
and these are the forces we had ranged within us,  
within us and against us, against us and within us._

 _-Adrienne Rich, from twenty-one love poems: XVII_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this finishes Old Roads! That's right, I am FINALLY FINISHED. For a little while there, I was rather afraid it was going to finish me than the other way around, but the story and I pulled through together. I have been writing Old Roads for 18 months, mostly straight through. I am startled that something that was originally never going to see the light of day took on this huge life of its own, but I am glad it did.
> 
> For those who are curious, the timeline of DA2 has been significantly modified to make it work with the Old Roads timeline; the Hawke story still took ten years to unfold, but Act 1 took a lot longer and Acts 2 and 3 were shorter.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has read this, reviewed, favorited, kudo'ed, commented, etc. You guys are totally the reason I kept writing this. (and hi, my faithful anon commenter Judy! Thank you!) Thanks also go to Crisium for being an inspiration, Bladesworn for the green ribbon that is _completely_ canon in my head (look up the story "The Longest Night" for why), and all the folks who hang out in the LJ community circle_tower and the Dreamwidth community peopleofthedas. And the folks in the Fade Bar on Formspring/IRC, as well.
> 
> I am in the process of rewriting and editing the first story in Old Roads, "Waking Hours". Check back with that story in June; I'll try to post another quick chapter at the end so folks who have it alerted will know to go reread it. I will also be posting the full-ish version of the Canticle of Demons, shortly.
> 
> And then, I will rest. *grins*
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for coming on this crazy ride with me. I hope it was worth it!

**Author's Note:**

> Writer neepery:
> 
> Finally, some of the stuff I've been working on in the background is coming to the fore. I've got a lot of loose ends to tie up here, and a lot of consequences to surface. Something fun that's been going on beneath the story is that I'm taking bits of Dragon Age lore and letting a bit of Greek mythology slip into them. It's pretty obvious that the Bioware writers were influenced by classical mythology when they considered the Fade, and I've been pulling on those threads. Virtue spirits are definitely Greek mythology-flavored, if not pulled directly from the texts.
> 
> Thus, the despair demon is known as Moros, which is a spirit of what we would consider Fate--Moros is the force that drives humans to the ends of their lives, and is the only power greater than any of the gods. Elpis, aka Hope (the Voice that Andraste carried), was the spirit that Pandora managed to keep within the jar of human evils she so foolishly opened. Keep in mind that to the ancient Greeks, hope was not necessarily a good thing (thus its location in the evil jar).
> 
> Elpis could also be translated as Expectation--one of the human traits that leads humans to struggle against their fates. Who better, after all, to change the world?
> 
> Enough with the neeping. I'm glad to be back!


End file.
